


Jeeves And The Chorus Girl, or Nietzsche And The Spirit Of The Dance

by cuddyclothes



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Bingo Is A Man Whore, Clothing Kink, Competent Bertie, Crossdressing, Drag Queens, Eventual Smut, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Frottage, He May Be Your Dog But He's Wearing My Collar, It Must Be Jeeves Cause Jelly Don't Shake Like That, Jealous Jeeves, M/M, Much gayness, Music, Oral Sex, Period-Typical Homophobia, Slash, too many tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2018-05-04
Packaged: 2019-01-06 08:14:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 38
Words: 85,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12207312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuddyclothes/pseuds/cuddyclothes
Summary: Bertie is dallying with a chorus girl. Jeeves is not happy.  In fact, he's jealous. Who knew that such an involvement would lead to so many complications? Who knew that Jeeves had a secret reason for being unavailable?Who knew Oofy Prosser could be persuaded to produce a West End musical?  And why does Bertie always have to be Ginger Rogers?This story turned out to be almost a musical...any chapter that references songs has the accompanying song video in it!  Massive happy Jooster smut.If you've enjoyed this, please leave a kudo. I promise to answer comments! If you want to contact me privately, you can at cuddyclothes.tumblr.com!This could not have been written without the help ofWotwotleigh!





	1. Won't You Aeroplane With Me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which an unexpected overnight guest causes a disturbance in the Wooster household

I heard the sound of a much-needed cup of tea being set upon the bedside table.

“Good morning, sir.”

“Hnh?” I shifted in bed. Despite their desire to stay closed, I fought the good fight with my eyelids and forced them open. “Jeeves?”

“It is nearly noon, sir—I thought--“ the words died on my man’s lips. He looked over my head at the wall.

I was baffled.  Then I discovered I wasn’t wearing my pyjama top. “Oh! Surely you’re not offended that the young master is bare-chested?”

“No, sir.”

 I shifted back to get a better look at my man, and my back pressed against something...

Solid, warm and shifting.

Since I do not own a dog and my aunt’s terrier McIntosh was not staying with us, it took a moment for me to turn from Jeeves to the solid w.s. behind me.

A young woman with dark brown hair and green eyes looked up at me. “Hallo, luv,” she chirped.

 

 

I know what you’re thinking. Wooster, you cad! You blot! You married this sweet young thing and you don’t know her name? Where’s the Code you’re always blathering about? What happened to our fair, our innocent young Bertie Wooster? Who is this heartless libertine?

Let me explain. The novels and stories I write are for the general public, you see. Parents read my tales to their tykes. Should I poison their nascent brains with tales of my exploits? Not that there are that many, but there are exploits. And an exploit is not something I can bung into one of my light-hearted tales. Well, I could, but it would have to be marketed to an older audience, and shock my aunts to no good effect. One can only imagine Aunt Agatha careening to London from her suite in Castle Dracula, ready to tear her nephew apart with her fangs.

All of the young men in my circle have exploits. I choose not to write about them so as not to unwittingly toss anyone into the tureen. Would it do to detail Catsmeat Potter-Pirbright’s dalliance with a maiden from Suffolk? Well, not a maiden, but you know what I mean. Or to admit that my old schoolmate Bingo Little, who throws his heart at any female remaining stationary long enough, had a torrid three weeks in Spain with a lissome beazel under the names Mr. and Mrs. Hagerty-Phipps-Toulouse?   Or that my dear friend Ginger Winship prefers the company of his own sex and that is why he frequently travels to Brazil? No, it would not do.

Unless this has slipped from your nerveless fingers, I shall go on to explain. Like Ginger, I prefer the company of my own sex. However, Wooster has not met a cove that’s worth doing two years of hard labor for. If I was Oscar Wilde, I might get some poetry out of it. But I doubt anyone wants to read “Bertie and The Striped Prison Suit”. However, the fairer sex are easily available in a variety of sizes and colors. Any number of females have flung themselves at me, seeking matrimony, but that is not for Bertie.  They entangle themselves with this Wooster in the mistaken notion that I nurture a tender pash in their direction. I don’t know that I’ve ever had a tender pash. And I have taken great care to not bring any cove or filly back to the flat.

The reason is Jeeves. Anyone who reads my little narratives knows that I hold the man in the highest esteem. He is the ideal to which we should all aspire. His magnificent brain, chiseled features and imposing broad-shouldered physique seemed impervious to desires of the flesh. Although I occasionally indulged in rather naughty fantasies as to what might be under his white shirt and sleeve garters, I had the strong impression that earthly delights were something he would not delight in, if you take my meaning.

“Good morning...?” I said with less than my usual panache.

The girl yawned and stretched, revealing herself to be wearing the top of my coral pajamas. When I turned, Jeeves was gone.

“Beryl.” She was pretty, large green eyes, pert nose, rosy lips and slightly pointed chin. She was practically purring. “You naughty man.” She reached a hand to her hair, which was mussed. Beryl had an unplaceable accent. If I had to guess, it would be Cockney tortured into an approximation of proper British vowels. Or possibly American. I’ve always had trouble telling them apart.

I shifted away from her in the bed.  “I have a serious question to put before you, er—“

“Beryl.”

“Yes, I have a serious question to put before you, Beryl.”

“Ask away,” she sighed.

“Are we married?”

Beryl gave such a hearty laugh I nearly fell out of the bed. “Married? Are you mad? Of course we’re not married! When would we have time to get married?”

Looking around the bedroom, attempting to reconstruct the night before, my eye alighted on an object hanging on the bedpost. A funny hat, made of gauzy stuff with gold striping running across it, with a large funny gold flap on either side. Aha! The memory rushed in. A chorus line of beautiful girls, kicking and singing.

 _“Ride up to the sky with me_  
_Won’t you aeroplane with me!”_

The delightful musical, ‘Node’s Jollities of 1934’, at the Princess Theater! I attended with Tuppy Glossop. He’d had yet another row with Angela. How she could withstand the rows that came as regularly as the ocean tides escaped me. Several of the young ladies of the chorus caught our eye. During the interval we sent around champagne and notes.  When the show was finished, Tuppy and I went backstage along with a group of other chappies, much champagne was opened, much revelry, and then it became a tad hazy. But now I remembered ALL.

“You’re Beryl!”

“I told you that.”

“No, you’re _Beryl_! Third from the left! I say, I say! I remember you!”

“I should hope so,” she pouted.

Beryl! Of course! She enchanted me the minute she first stepped onstage, in her quaint little crab costume for the “O’er the Oceans I’m Seeking You” number.  Her lithe figure, her red lips, the whole package was quite topping. She had bally marvelous legs.

“You have bally marvelous legs!” I exclaimed. “That’s right!”

“Why, thank you ever so, Mr. Wooster.” She reached up and pulled me down for a kiss. I unhooked myself from her arms.

“No, I can’t—pardon me, but I must go speak to my man.” I pulled on a dressing gown before I went into the sitting room.  “Jeeves?”

He turned, as expressionless as a—as someone with no expression. “Yes, sir?”

Trying to be nonchalant, I waited for Jeeves to give notice. But he continued to gaze at me. Not even an eyebrow twitch.

“Well! Yes! This is awkward, by Jove.”

“What is, sir?”

“Dash it, Jeeves, I was in my cups! You might have seen to it that the young lady went in the opposite direction of my front door,” I remonstrated. “Or at the very least bedded her down in the guest bedroom.”

“I was asleep when you returned home, sir. When I awakened, the tenor of your conversation suggested that an intrusion would be most unwelcome.”

 “Oh! Oh, dear. I’m dreadfully sorry this happened, I’ve not brought a beazel home before.”

“It is _your_ home, sir,” he said coldly.

“Jeeves, it’s yours as well.”

“I live here because you employ me, sir.” 

Oh, dear indeed. Jeeves was most definitely put out. “I didn’t mean to. I was a bit under the surface, and we—Miss—um—Beryl has three flatmates. And we couldn’t find a hotel room.”

“If you say so, sir.” There was a freezing downdraft coming from Jeeves’s direction. I needed a raccoon coat and gloves to withstand the chill.  “Does sir plan to appear in the circus?”

“What?”

“The Harlequin makeup, sir.”

I reached up and touched my face. My fingers came away with smeared red lip rouge. Unnerved, I chuckled. “Oh! No, that’s lip rouge. Well, out, out damned spot, what?”

Jeeves remained frosty. But the cove knew I was a man of the world.

“Jeeves, old thing,” I made another feeble attempt at a chuckle. “You know I’m a man of the world.”

“Indeed, sir.”

It was not what I was doing, or who I was doing the what _with_ , it was the _where._ The flat had been sacrosanct, untouched, a virgin temple. Jeeves had been the temple guardian lo these last two years. But Wooster had snuck past the guardian and ironically—is that the word I want? No, inevitably? No, dash it! Irrevocably!—irrevocably removed the sanct from the sacrosanct.

“I’m terribly sorry I have sullied the Wooster abode, but there’s nothing I can do about it now. The damage has been done. There is no repairing it. The virgin temple is virgin no more.”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“If you want to give notice...”

“Why should I wish to do that, sir? It is hardly my place to have strong feelings about my master’s romantic activities.”

“You have strong feelings about _everything_ , Jeeves.”

“Will there be anything further, sir?”

I gave up. Relief that he wouldn’t quit over my indiscretion mixed with...I’m not sure what. I mean to say, if Bingo Little wearing a tie with little horseshoes causes Jeeves to leave the room to compose himself, or my banjolele playing leads him to give notice, surely this was near the top of the Jeeves Disapproves scale?  Why wasn’t he setting the sofa on fire?

“I like her,” I stated. “So!” I clapped my hands together in a feeble effort to be insouciant, if that’s the word I want. Yes, insouciant, light hearted, carefree. “Nothing to be done, eh? It’s breakfast for two, Jeeves.”

“Very good, sir.” He started for the kitchen, but I stopped him.

“Jeeves, it appears the young lady came here in only a costume, so we shall have to send for her clothes. I presume they are back at the Princess Theater. She’s in a show there.”

“Yes, sir.  I will go prepare breakfast, sir. Shall I serve it in your bedroom, sir?”

“What? No! The dining room, Jeeves. We’re not barbarians.”

“As you say, sir.” He floated to the kitchen. The swinging door swung in a marked manner.

Well! Dashed awkward, the whole business, but there was nothing for it but to carry on. I mean, one couldn’t bung a chorus girl out onto the street in nothing but a spangled costume, no matter how becoming.


	2. Breakfast Is Not Served.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jeeves forgets how Bertie likes his eggs.
> 
> Please comment! I promise to answer!

Returning to my bedchamber, I found Beryl sitting on the edge of the bed, still in my coral pajama top.

“Is your man terribly upset?”

“Yes. But Jeeves is a tough nut, he’ll snap out of it.”  I rummaged around my dresser until I found my second-best dressing gown, brown flannel with red piping.  Removing my pajama top, she stood up, in pink lingerie, which got my attention. Beryl did have the nicest little body. Quite along Jean Harlow lines.  It was a pity I remembered so little of the night before. Now that Jeeves knew about her that was no chance I could pitch woo with her this afternoon. She looked most awfully pitchable. Beryl wrapped the robe around herself and tied the belt.

“Where’s your bathroom? I must look a sight!” She went in. After a short interval, she returned, hair combed and face clean. “Am I presentable?”

“And how, lovely thing.” I gave her a peck on the mouth. I went in after her, and wiped the lip rouge off the dial.

We went into the dining room. I seated her across from me at the t. She admired the table settings, picking up a knife. “This isn’t half posh,” she remarked. “I should be wearing an evening gown.”

“One does not wear an evening gown at breakfast, Miss,” said Jeeves, sweeping in with a pot of Darjeeling.

“Beryl, this is my man Jeeves. Jeeves, this is Beryl—what is your last name?”

“Dixon.”

“Good morning, Miss Dixon.”

“Please, call me Beryl!”

"No, miss."

If Jeeves could have stiffened more, he would have, but he couldn’t. The air of displeasure surrounded his corpus, although only I could tell. One nostril was ever so slightly flared. Then I noticed something truly upsetting.

Next to the toast triangles nestled in the toast rack, the eggs and bacon were on the table in serving dishes! There was no flower on the table! And most atrocious of all, the eggs were scrambled! Jeeves knew I detested scrambled eggs.

“I say, Jeeves.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Those eggs have been _scrambled_.”

“Indeed, sir.”

“I detest scrambled eggs. The old sunny-side up, that’s what I like.”

“I had forgotten, sir.”

“I love scrambled eggs!” Beryl piped up.

“You haven’t plated the food, either! Do you expect us to serve ourselves?”

Jeeves said nothing, merely pouring us cups of tea. Beryl took hers without cream or sugar.

“Why wouldn’t he expect you to serve yourself?” she asked. “He prepared the breakfast. Mr. Jeeves, do you have any beans? I love beans at breakfast.” She helped herself to eggs and bacon. Really! The gall, having my guest serve herself! There would be fireworks when Beryl left!

The temperature of the room continued to drop until I could no longer feel my extremities.

“If you wish beans, miss, I shall go to the market and procure them,” he said, his voice arctic.

“NO!” I said too loudly. “No, Jeeves, that will not be necessary.”

“As you say, sir. I have sent for the young lady’s things, sir.”

Beryl giggled, hiding her mouth with her hand. “Thank you so much! What must you think of me, Mr. Jeeves!”

“Yes, miss. If you will excuse me, miss.” And just like that, he was gone to parts unknown. Well, probably the kitchen.

Impervious to the freezing hail in the Wooster abode, Beryl chatted merrily about “Node’s Jollities”, the many failings of the star, Zelda Plumington (‘The Faerie Girl of The West End’ as she was billed), and Beryl’s ambition to be the next Norma Shearer. 

“Aren’t you going to eat anything, Bertie?” Beryl asked solicitously. Her green eyes and thick eyelashes were absolutely lovely, as was her little red mouth.

“I’m not hungry,” I said in Jeeves’s general direction. I picked up a disconsolate toast triangle and buttered it. Scrambled eggs! The bally cheek!

Jeeves swept in as Beryl finished her breakfast. I gave a pointed look at my empty plate, lifting an eyebrow to show him that putting scrambled eggs on my t. did not cow me in the least. I rose, dropping my napkin on the table.

“Beryl, dearest, why don’t we wait in the bedroom for your clothes.” I gave her my arm, ignoring my manservant. “Can’t very well have you sitting in a dressing gown and a pyjama top in my sitting room.”

Triumphant, I ankled out, the young beazel on my arm.

Scrambled eggs! Pah!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most often for guests, meals were 'plated', i.e. served on a plate, or served by the servant. Serving dishes where guests had to serve themselves were largely at country estates at breakfast, so the guests could come and go as they pleased for the duration of the morning.


	3. A Secret Is Revealed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jeeves refuses to unbend.
> 
> Comments are my restorative.

Jeeves’s behavior was inexcusable. Beyond the pale. It passethed, if passethed is the word I want, understanding. Young Wooster wasn’t going to give the traitor the satisfaction of having us wait in the bedroom. In a spirit of wild rebellion, I guided us to the sitting room. The worm had most assuredly turned! Scrambled eggs!

Beryl sat on the sofa, tucking her bally marvelous legs under her like a small cat.  I sat down at one end, feeling dashed awkward.  Wild rebellion suddenly didn’t seem like the best choice Wooster had made. The y.m. was unused to women in lingerie and dressing gown lounging on his sofa, or indeed, anywhere else in his flat.  She scooted closer to me. I felt myself blush. In the bedroom was one thing, but the sitting room? Was this the _preux_ thing to do?

Jeeves stood nearby, hands behind his back, doing the complete stuffed frog routine. It couldn’t have felt more awkward than if myself and Beryl were stark naked, playing hopscotch in front of the fireplace. Nevertheless, I refused to be cowed by my gentleman’s gentleman in my own sitting room. Not this Wooster!

“Cigarette?” I offered her the box of the finest Turkish.

She took one in a slender hand and put it to her lips. Instantly, Jeeves bent over her with the lighter.  Beryl took a long drag, and leaned her head back against the back of the sofa.

“Thank you, Mr. Jeeves. Oh, I did need that ever so! I simply cannot start my day without a fag.” She reached her hand out and stroked the Wooster crowning glory. I moved out from under her hand and shot Jeeves an embarrassed look.

“Will there be anything further, sir?” Jeeves’s tone as good as said, “There better not be.”

“I would so love to have a bath!” Beryl said.

“Very good, miss.” He disappeared in the direction of the _salle de baine_.

“Your man is handsome enough to be on stage,” she observed. “Those shoulders! Those eyes! He’s a regular Clark Gable.”

“Beryl,” I said hesitantly, “after last night—“

She smiled. “Don’t worry your pretty head about me, Bertie Wooster. I like you most awfully. I’d love to keep seeing you. But I’m not in love with you. Don’t be foolish enough to fall in love with me.”

I mean to say, this was a blow to the Wooster pride!  Many of my experiences with women I had merely kissed had them picking out china patterns. “I’m not in love with you, either” I retorted. “No fear!”

Beryl kissed me on the cheek. “Thank goodness! I prefer to be clear about this whole love business.”

She turned her head and blew some cigarette smoke away from us, then turned back and kissed me.  “You are so sweet, Bertie!”

We continued with the osculation for some time, until a soft cough interrupted us. I looked up, to see Jeeves standing there.  He looked at us as if we were flies doing the backstroke in his soup.

“Miss Beryl’s bath is drawn, sir.”

“Thank you, Jeeves.” He withdrew, shutting the door just a whisper harder than he would have ordinarily. I followed her into the bedroom.

“Thank goodness,” she said, shucking off my robe and her underthings. Again I was treated to the delicious sight of her figure. I reached toward her, but she smacked my hand away. “I have to get home, Bertie. If we start now I’ll be here until curtain time.”

“Blast. When I can see you again? Tonight?”

“No, I have a date.” She tiptoed to the _salle de banne._ “Bertie, come and help me.”

I followed her and helped her bathe. For the next two hours.

 

 

I continued to see Beryl.  I brought her back to the flat on Jeeves’s night off. Those dratted three roommates of hers were always about, giggling and singing and playing the piano. Never a moment’s peace or privacy!  So I gave Jeeves Sundays off as well, since the theater was dark and we could canoodle as much as we desired. It was hardly Young Love In Bloom, but we found in each other a nice way station until we found Y.L. in B. To be perfectly aboveboard, I wished to find a chap. As much as I enjoyed snogging with the lovely filly, I found myself looking more at chaps on the street than I had been. Bertram’s banked fires were being stirred up and I couldn’t stir them back down. However, the specter of chokey loomed large. In the meantime, there were Beryl’s rosy, kissable lips, smooth skin and a bally marvelous pair of legs.

Between Jeeves and her three roommates, spending the night together was impossible. I wasn’t about to put her in one of those Back Street apartments where the other occupants of the rooming house would gossip and stick their heads out the doors whenever she went up or down the stairs. To be honest, she didn’t want one of those B.S. a.s.. She was seeing other chaps as well. And this Wooster preferred to wake up with only my valet and a cup of tea for company. Despite all of the available females thrown by Aunt Agatha at my head, I had no desire for matrimony. Without the benefit of love, marriage would be dreary, and as the poet said, we lug around the eyes of hate over the morning grapefruit. I don’t eat grapefruit, so it would be twice as awful. Eyes of hate before my morning tea? I think not!

Matters between me and Jeeves continued chilly. A happy home with an unhappy Jeeves is not a happy home, if you catch my meaning.

“Jeeves,” I opened with one morning.

“Yes, sir?”

“You’ve been oddly silent in recent days. There has been a glaze in your eyes, _ennui_ in your bearing, a lack of _je ne sais quois_.”

“Has there, sir? I was not aware.”

“Dash it, Jeeves, you are fully aware! You are _always_ fully aware! The slightest wilt in my _boutonnière_ is swiftly corrected! I demand to know why Heaven's radiant show has gone, Jeeves.”

He coughed softly. “There is nothing the matter, sir. I apologize if I have not been carrying out my duties as you prefer.”

“That’s bally it, Jeeves! You _are_ carrying out my duties as I prefer. You disapprove of Beryl, is that it?”

“It is not my place to approve or disapprove, sir.”

“Ah-hah!” I pointed a triumphant finger at the cove. “In the past, whenever I have become engaged, you rally round and fish me out of the soup! You yawp on about how this beazel or that beazel is not suited for young Wooster! But yawp you have not, Jeeves! Not one yawp has passed your lips! Why do you yawp not?”

One dark eyebrow twitched slightly.

“Yawp away, my good man! In fact, I demand you yawp!”

He stood, stuffed frog in full flower. “If I may take the liberty, sir, I have observed that Miss Dixon is making you happy.”

“That’s never stopped you before! What makes you think she's making me happy?"

He said nothing. It was the damndest thing. “Will there be anything further, sir?”

“No, Jeeves.” I gave up. No yawps were forthcoming.

“Very good, sir. I shall prepare your luncheon.”

 

 

It was dashed uncomfortable to live with a Jeeves who might as well be living three towns over. He continued to perform his duties as smoothly as ever, lighting my Turkish, bringing my tea in the morning, reporting on the weather. But if I broached the subject of his attitude, he refused to say more than “do you require anything else, sir?”

When Bingo Little came to us with his latest romantic dilemma, Jeeves refused to help! Can you believe it? “I am sorry to say that no ideas come to mind, sir,” Jeeves drawled, and that was bally that! And yet he never once hinted at tendering his resignation. I watched him go about his daily duties. The facade did not crack. It was bally awful. No chats in the evening when he served me a relaxing brandy, no listening to me play the piano—even when I played Schubert! _Schubert_ , blast it!

“I say, whatever is the matter with your man,” asked Freddie Widgeon. I sat in a disconsolate armchair at my club, the Drones. “I stopped by to see you, and he all but slammed the door in my face!”

“Jeeves is discommoded, if that’s the word I want. Not all is well in the Wooster household.” I stared into the depths of my w. and s. “I have been seeing a sweet little frail, and Jeeves does not approve.”

Freddie sat up, astonished. “He has not ended your entanglement?”

“That’s the puzzling thing, Freddie. He’s been wholly accepting. Even though she’s a chorus girl with ‘Nodes Jollities’, and I’ve brought her to the flat, and we have shared—uh—tender moments, if you know what I’m getting at.”

“My God.” Freddie whistled between his teeth. “He doesn’t even object to her being a lowly chorus girl? Not that there’s anything wrong with chorus girls, they’re delicious little morsels, but _Jeeves_! Should we expect the four horsemen?”

“We’re not engaged, and we have no plans to be engaged.”

“But still—this is Jeeves we’re talking about!”

“That’s the bally thing of it. Everything should be utterly disdained, but he’s daining it. There is no dis in his disdain. He said she makes me happy. He was slightly less... slightly less numinous, if that’s the word I want.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Neither do I."

"Does she make you happy?"

"No. I enjoy her company. That's not the same thing. I am trying to formulate its baffling import, Freddie, and no mistake.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” my old chum mused. “If anything, he should be more perturbed. I mean, with Jeeves being celibate and all.”

I dropped my drink. _“What_ did you say _?”_

“You know, Jeeves being celi—oh god, Bertie.” Freddie’s eyes widened in horror. “You mean, you didn’t know about your man? I thought you knew.”

I levered up my jaw from where it had hit the floor. “Jeeves and I—I mean to say—it’s not cricket to discuss a servant’s private life. On what do you base this calumny?”

“I thought you knew.”

“Damn it, Freddie, you’ve made it crystal clear that you thought I knew! I didn’t knew—I don’t knew—I don’t know! Explain, and waste no time at it.”

He buried his head in his hands. “Bertie, I thought you knew.”

“If you say that again, I shall clobber you with an end table.”

Freddie looked up at me. “Jeeves took a vow of celibacy years ago.”

“Who’s spreading that dastardly lie?” Jeeves, that _beau ideal_ of men, who could have any woman he desired (with the exception of Aunt Agatha), forgoing the sins of the flesh? It simply could not be countenanced!

“It—he—my man, Barclay. It seems that for whatever reason, Jeeves vowed to remain celibate for the duration of his days. Nobody knows why. He only told Barclay under duress. Jeeves fell in love with some woman and after it was over he took a vow of celibacy. That was ages before he came to work for you.”

“Are you and Barclay the only coves who know?” My heart was hammering like billy-o. This knowledge should not have been mine to possess, but the feline had been let out of the container and it was too late now.

“Bertie, I’m so sorry.” Freddie reached out to pat my shoulder. I pulled away lest the villain’s hand leave a stain on my tweeds. “We can assume the members of the Junior Ganymede are acquainted with the facts of the case. Servants love to gossip.”

“So do Drones,” I snapped. “It’s a fair guess that everyone in this damned club knows about Jeeves, save for his employer. How am I going to face the man after this? ‘What ho, Jeeves, I hear that you’ve denounced earthly pleasures. I should like a pot of Oolong.’ I shall have to wear spectacles and a false mustache so that he cannot see my face!”

“Not terribly practical, Bertie.”

“No,” I conceded. “What shall I do?”

“Nothing. Go about the way you usually do. Nobody thinks you know anything about anything anyway.”

“I say!” The thought of Jeeves—but it did explain the monk-like air surrounding the chap. Perhaps he was a monk and secretly crept off to a monastery during his annual vacation? The shrimping was a lie? Did he have an altar in his lair? That was ridiculous. Monks don’t return from retreats tanned and fit.

“But—but he’s told me he’s had understandings with cooks and things, Freddie.”

Freddie gave me a pitying gander. “Jeeves is the best liar in England, you sap. How many times has he put one over on half the population? Particularly his master.”

“I say!” I I-sayed again. “This is the frozen limit! I shall confront the scoundrel and—and—“

“Do what, Bertie? You breathe a word, he’ll tender his resignation.”

Having Freddie be the more intelligent of the two of us was a sensation that quite knocked me off my pins. Yes, Jeeves would most certainly tender his resignation. Then he might in actuality move into a monastery. That would be a happy event for the other monks. The place would never be so clean. The baptismal font would sparkle. The relics would look absolutely new.

The thought of Jeeves in a monastery could not be borne! No, he must stay with me. So no talk of vows and forsaking pleasures of the flesh or anything else pertaining to making whoopee.

Freddie put his hand on his chin. “So, tell me about this chorus girl. Does she have a friend?”

The conversation turned to women. With a doleful sigh, I picked up the shattered remnants and did my best. Since Freddie had been engaged at least fifteen times and in love into the triple digits, we had a fair amount to discuss.

 


	4. Illustration of Beryl by WotWotLeigh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And her bally marvelous legs!


	5. My Lucky Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Beryl introduces Bertie to a new friend. And Bertie gets his first taste of being Ginger Rogers.
> 
>  
> 
> At the bottom are two YouTube videos. One is Fred Astaire singing "Night And Day". I hope you listen to it. It's the same basic arrangement as the movie itself, accompanied by a GIF of Fred and Ginger dancing. 
> 
> The other is Gracie Fields singing "My Lucky Day". If you want, you can play them along with the text! 
> 
> Comments make me so happy

Knowing that Jeeves had taken a vow of celibacy (of all things) had me observing the man in a new and different light. Well, not so different, since I had always seen him as being as warm and cuddly as a marble statue of Julius Caesar. What sort of a woman have broken his heart to the extent that he had forsworn tender relations and hot loving? I would have felt sorry for Jeeves, if he hadn’t still been behaving as if he was in another flat when he was in the same room as I was.

It was not a week later, on Sunday night, that Jeeves was decorating me in What The Young Gent Is Wearing For Evening. He was also in evening plumage, presumably to biff off to the Junior Ganymede, his club. 

“Jeeves, isn’t tonight your night off?” I asked nervously. “Why are you still here? You’re dressed for an evening out, I see.”

“My evening engagement is starting later than I planned, sir. I shall be taking my departure soon.” The impassive act was continuing. I didn’t know how much longer I could take it.

“Do it with all speed, Jeeves.”

“Very good, sir.”

As I turned to regard myself in the mirror, the doorbell rang. My stomach lurched.

_Oh, no..._

Jeeves floated out to answer the door.

“Good evening, Miss Dixon.” There was enough soup in Jeeves’s voice to float dumplings.

“Hello, Mr. Jeeves! I haven’t seen you in ages! How are you tonight?”

“Well, miss.”

“You really are a stunner, Jeeves. Are you certain you wouldn’t consider a career in the theater?”

“I am certain, Miss Dixon.” He bit the words so sharply they could cut paper.

I sallied out to rescue the poor girl. She was bedecked in sequins and a dark green evening coat.

“Bertie!” she cried, and kissed me in a way that would do Norma Shearer credit.

“Good night, sir.” Jeeves closed the front door behind him soundlessly. Never had a soundless sound been more eloquent.

Now that we were alone, my shoulders loosened. I hadn’t realized they had been up around my ears.

“He doesn’t like me, does he?” She looked up at me unhappily.

“Of course he does,” I replied. “He’s a reserved chappie is all.”

“There’s reserved and there’s letting you know he wants you to go boil your head.”

A light, airy laugh loosed itself from my lips. “Jeeves does not rule my roost, Beryl. Bertram goes where he pleases with whom he pleases, and that whom is you.”

I tucked her arm through mine and gave her hand a pat. She gave me a sort of rummy look. “Don’t you ever think...well...improper thoughts about him? I would!”

“Beryl!” I stared down at her, shocked.

“I know you also like men, Bertie. Doesn’t bother me, because I do, too.”

“I say, what?” I spluttered, all attempts at light airyness taking a powder. “Do you think I’m keen to spend my days doing hard labour?”

Beryl shrugged. “Don’t you think about him?”

“Jeeves doesn’t—Jeeves isn’t—it would be like making a pass at the Archbishop of Canterbury!”

She gave my hand a squeeze. “Jeeves doesn’t know what he’s missing.”

 

 

The Cafe de Paris was jumping like billy-o tonight. Despite the raucous revelry of the raucous revelers around us, the usually sunny disposish was cast down. Our table was at one side of the crowded dance floor. There were moments where all one could see in the crush was a sea of _derrieres_.

 _I long to be returning_  
_Back to the Venetian Isles_  
_A spark of love is burning_  
_Down in the Venetian Isles_  
_I can see a setting sun across the bay_  
_And a little lonely one who seems to say_  
_“Come back, my heart is yearning”_  
_Down in the Venetian Isles._

I puffed a dejected cigarette. Dancing had done nothing for my mood. But Beryl didn’t have to endure it. “Beryl, my sweet, if you need to find more congenial company, flitter off with my permission. ‘I only stay to fiddle-faddle in a minor key’. And pay the bar tab.”

“Don’t be absurd, Bertie. I have a surprise for you!” Beryl put her hand on my wrist. “There’s a man I want you to meet. I’ve told him all about you.”

I started. “Good god, not your father!”

Her green eyes positively sparkled.  “No, Bertie. I know you’ll like him. Ah! Here he is!”

A tall, handsome chappie with thick auburn hair accessorized with matching Ronald Colman mustache came up to our table. “Hallo, Beryl!  This must be Bertram Wooster!” He had one of those slow smiles, the kind of slow smile that let you know that he was—for lack of a better phrase—a man of the world.

“Er, rather.” He seated himself next to Beryl without being asked. He reached over and shook my hand. I did my best to ignore his familiarity.

“Bertie, this is Sandy Simpson. He’s a specialty dancer in the show. Sandy does the ‘Clouds Couldn’t Dance Like You’ number with Jennifer Jakes.” Sandy continued to smile that smile at me. It was a pleasant smile, if slightly carnivorous. 

I wasn’t used to chaps eyeing me as if they were a tiger and me a fat slow sheep. “Ah, yes, that was a topping act! Almost like Chinese acrobats set to music, don’t you know. Graceful, zephyr-like, if that’s the word I want. Bally good night at the theater. Node knows what he’s about.”

“Thank you, Bertie. I’m pleased you like it. Jennifer and I have been dancing all over the Continent for the last five years.”

“Is she your wife?” I asked, not sure if I wanted the answer to be yes or no.

“No!” He laughed. “God forbid. She’s only my dance partner. Bertie, it’s wonderful to stay in one place for a change. London is a marvelous city. So full of improbable things and divine people.” He gave me a wink.

“I knew you’d like each other!” Beryl said. “If you will excuse me, I need to powder my nose.” She was off, soon lost in the dance floor crowd. Sandy gazed after her.

“I’m sorry we can’t dance, Bertie. You’re very lissome.”

“Er, ah, thank you?” Sandy was appealing. If only he wasn’t looking at me as if he wanted to tear my clothes and take me under the table. I mean, it’s flattering and all, but a chap has to work up to it, if you catch my drift. “You’re a corking specimen yourself. Tell me, when did you start dancing professionally?”

“Almost as soon as I could walk. My mother needed a breadwinner. A child novelty act was the answer. We toured the music halls all over Britain. Then I met Jennifer at a dancing competition in Brighton, so we worked up an act and we’ve been dancing everywhere ever since. As I said, it’s wonderful to stay in one place.” A second later, I felt a hand slide onto my knee. I jumped. I didn’t dare say anything. What if it was accidental? What if he’d dropped his napkin? A bally fool I’d look, accusing a man of trying to tempt Bertram Wooster—

His hand was on my knee again. He squeezed.

“I know a club we could go to,” Sandy said softly. “I could show you what an excellent dancer I am. Beryl wasn’t exaggerating when she said you were good-looking. I like you, Bertie.”

I goggled at him. I mean, this was happening far too fast! “I like you, too,” I gulped.  The band struck up “My Lucky Day”. Sandy started _serenading_ me, if you can believe it!

 _Oh, boy I'm lucky_  
_I'll say I'm lucky_  
_This is my lucky day_

  _I'm all in clover_  
_I'm glad all over_  
_I wanna shout, hurray_

_I find a horseshoe_  
_Couldn't go wrong_  
_And then of course_  
_You happened along_  


_Oh, boy I'm lucky_  
_I'll say I'm lucky_  
_This is my lucky day_  

I didn’t know where to look.  What if other patrons were noticing this display? What if someone I knew was here?

Beryl had returned. She beamed at us. “I’m so happy Sandy was able to join us! Sandy, I want to promise you’ll be friends with Bertie.”

“Most assuredly, Beryl.” Sandy gave my knee another squeeze.

“Yes, yes, friends, yes—I say, is that the time? I must dash. Beryl, my dear, I’ll give you a ring eftsoons. Sandy, a pleasure to meet you—must be going, what? Toodle-pip!”

I would have run out of there, only I had to squeeze through dozens of bodies to get across the dance floor and to the coat check girl.

Sandy was toothsome, but having him fling himself at me like Florence Craye was not on. Not on at all.

There was something about the cove that spelled “trouble”. Yes, I know "trouble" is spelled differently than "cove". He was a cove who looked like trouble. No, that isn't it. Suffice to say it was with relief that I stumbled out of the club and into the street.

 

Looking back, I could not have imagined the events set rolling when I escorted Beryl to an afternoon showing of “The Gay Divorcee”, a musical picture starring Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers.

It was bally astounding, a blending of melody and merriment that had me walking a foot above the pavement. That’s not strictly accurate, my feet were touching the ground, but they weren’t, if you know what I mean. Beryl held my arm, humming “Needle In A Haystack”. 

 “Beryl, dear, how’s about a drink and dancing.  You don’t have to be at the theater for a while.  Give Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers a run for their money.” I stepped away from her and threw out my arms in a theatrical dance gesture. “I say, I could be mistaken for that Astaire chap. Lithe, don’t you know, limber, sweet _and_ hot!”

Beryl ignored me. “Ginger Rogers is nothing much.”

“Nothing much? Vesuvius is nothing much! The Eiffel Tower is nothing much! Ginger Rogers is...is _much!_ ”

“I could dance rings around her.”

“Er, yes,” I said tactfully. “Then how about now? Let’s trip over the light fantastic!”

“It’s trip the light fantastic, you chump.” She patted my cheek. “I have to go to the theater, damn it.  Rehearsal. The ‘London Lady’ number has gone a bit slack. Zelda is forgetting the lyrics. If she stayed sober, she might get through the damn thing all the way. But instead we have to pretend _we’re_ the problem.  I’ve got to run. Bye, dearest! Give me a ring tomorrow!” She gave me a quick peck on the lips and hurried away.

Damn. Wooster was in a trans—transfor—transgre—transport. That’s the word I want. Wooster was transported. Dancing was called for! The music of Cole Porter was buzzing in my mind, I was barely aware where I was until I arrived home. I burst into song as Jeeves opened the door.

 _“It’s just like looking for a needle in a haystack_  
_Searching for a moonbeam in the blue_  
_Still I’ve got to find you!”_

 “Good evening, sir.” Jeeves took my hat and coat as I floated by him. “Did you and Miss Dixon enjoy the picture, sir?”

“ _It’s just like_ \--Jeeves--this Fred Astaire person—he’s bally marvelous! I’m floating on air, I tell you!”

“Where is Miss Dixon. sir?”

“She had to go back to the theater. Rehearsal, dash it. After that picture, I wanted to go dancing! Shame you’re not Beryl.”

“To some, sir.”

“Ah, your disapproval shall not affect me, Jeeves, not after such a splendid experience! Have you heard of Fred Astaire?”

“He is a new picture personality, sir. But Mr. Astaire has frequently appeared onstage in the West End. With his sister Adele.”

“Ah! There you have it.  No sparkle. You can’t sparkle with your sister, eh? He’s with that filly Ginger Rogers. What a team, Jeeves, what a team! Magic! Astaire doesn’t know where to look for her, and he sings, and dashed if he doesn’t start dancing all over his sitting room!  I’ll show you. Give me back my hat and whangee.” Jeeves folded my evening scarf as I circled him.

 _“I’ll roam the town in hopes that we meet_ (handed Jeeves my hat)  
_Look at each face I pass on the street_ (handed Jeeves my whangee)  
_For sometimes I hear the beat of your feet_  
_But it’s just imagination!”_

Graceful as a gazelle, I attempted a leap toward the sofa. Not quite as graceful as a gazelle, as I missed and fell over onto it. I waved off Jeeves’s attempt to help me up.

So filled with elation was the young master that he insisted on sitting at the piano. “There is nothing to touch Cole Porter at his best!” I launched into my favorite song, “Night and Day”.

 _Like the beat, beat, beat of the tom tom_  
_When the jungle shadows fall_  
_Like the tick, tick, tock of the stately clock_  
_As it stands against the wall_

“Dash it, Jeeves, I simply cannot sit still! _A capella_ it is!” I bounced up from the piano, pretending to dance with an invisible Ginger Rogers.

 _Like the drip, drip drip of the rain drops_  
_When the summer showers through_  
_A voice within me keeps repeating_  
_You, you, you—“_

I stopped.  “I need Ginger Rogers.”

“We don’t seem to have one about the flat, sir.”

I looked at him. Beryl would have made an excellent Ginger Rogers, damn it all.  An idea emerged from the ooze.

“ _You_ have to be Fred Astaire! I’ll be Ginger Rogers!”

Jeeves’s right eyebrow raised a barely perceptible fraction.

“I am not equipped to be Fred Astaire, sir. He is slight and fleet of foot, like yourself, sir.”

“Hmm, that’s right. But as the great philosopher Marcus Aurelius said: ‘We should consider every day lost on which we have not danced at least once’. You don’t want to lose today, do you?”

“That was Nietzsche, sir.”

“Really? Awfully cheerful for Nietzsche.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Nietzsche is quite the dour duck.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Doesn’t seem to fit with that man and superman wheeze.”

“No, sir.”

“Terpsichore has me in her clutches, Jeeves! There’s nothing for it, we must dance or I shall be unable to sleep for my feet waving in the air whilst Cole Porter songs haunt my dreams! It’s a fox trot, you know how to do one of those. I’ll do the turns and things!”

“Very good, sir.” His tone suggested the opposite. Bingo Little had let it be known that Jeeves swings a dashed efficient shoe, and that turned out to be the case.  He primly held me at a distance from himself. 

"I say, Jeeves, you're like one of the girls at the dancing school I attended as a lad."

"I don't know what you mean, sir. This is the proper way to hold a lady when dancing, sir."

I fired up my best Astaire croon.

 _Night and day you are the one_  
_Only you beneath the moon or under the sun_  
_Whether near to me or far it's no matter darling_  
_Where you are_  
_I think of you, night and day—_

We circled about the sitting room, narrowly missing an end table. Jeeves was not bad at all at this dancing wheeze. For such a large, broad-shouldered fellow, he was remarkably deft. You'd thought he'd been dancing since boyhood, like that Sa--no, I did not want to think of that S.

"Jeeves, you're not bad at all at this dancing wheeze. Now we have to sway and dip! On my cue.”

“Yes, sir.”

 _Day and night_  
_Why is it so that this longing for you_  
_Follows where ever I go?_  
_In the roaring traffic's boom, in the silence of my lonely room_

“Swing!”

_I think of you_

“Dip!”

_Day and night, night and day!_

Here’s the thing. There was nothing to be faulted with Jeeves’s dip. It was a truly professional dip. Even an elegant dip. His strong arms tipped me backwards and held me only a few feet from the floor.

I had not counted on our locking eyes.

What I saw in his eyes practically made me melt into the carpet.

It was the way Ginger Rogers looked at Fred Astaire.

The look vanished, replaced by startled fear.

“Jeeves?” I said in a manly squeak.

“Yes, sir?”

“I—um—I believe I need to stand up, Jeeves.”

His eyes returned to normal, and he swung me back. My knees were a tad on the aspic side.

“Very good, sir. Would you care for a brandy and soda after your exertions, sir?”

“That would be topping!” I said, rather too loudly. I ran my hand over the back of my head, trying to look as Astaire as possible. “My, yes, a refreshing beverage after my labors!  Pour one for yourself, my man!”

“No, thank you, sir. I shall content myself with soda water.”

He exited to the kitchen.  I dropped down onto the sofa, picked up my book, and looked to be reading when he returned. He set down the b. and s. and floated back to the kitchen.

I looked to be reading for the rest of the evening, even at the dining table. It was unforgivably coarse, I know, but I simply could not look at Jeeves after that dance. I felt like Ginger Rogers, but the man serving me _potatoes Anna_ was Jeeves, not Fred Astaire.

 

 

 

Fred Astaire singing "Night And Day"

Gracie Fields singing "My Lucky Day"  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The Gay Divorcee" was released by RKO in 1934, with a Cole Porter score. Astaire and Rogers became the top dancing duo of the 1930s.  
> The title of the Astaire video refers to the note on Fred Astaire's first screen test at MGM.  
> "My Lucky Day" was a hit song sung by Gracie Field, a popular British entertainer.  
> "Venetian Isles" was written by Irving Berlin.  
> Cafe de Paris was a club in the West End of London. The Prince of Wales was a frequent guest, as was Cole Porter. It was bombed in 1948, but was rebuilt and continues today.
> 
> And now you know where Nietzsche comes in!


	6. A Bit Of The Old Polari

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bertie discovers why Oofy has become a theatrical producer. And notices that Jeeves seems not to like Sandy.
> 
>  
> 
> Comments make my day. You know you want to.

Can you credit it? It was as if our dip had never happened. Jeeves returned to his frigid state, not a tad warmed from our caracole. There was nothing for it but to drag the carcass to dine at the Drones. As dinner rolls flew past my head, I held a brooding brandy and looked into its depths.

Guilt wrapped around me like a too-tight waistcoat. Try as I might, I could not help but see Jeeves’s eyes. What to call the way Ginger had stared up at Fred after their dance? The dawn of true love? Amazement at his dancing skill? Exhaustion? All of the above? Had it been my imagination? Did I want Jeeves to look at me like Ginger Rogers? He was a superior figure of a man, but I hadn’t given his superior figure much thought. Now I was thinking about his superior figure. Ginger Rogers was _much_ , but Jeeves was just as _much_. And then some.

But there was that celibate thingy. Far be it from me to ask him to break a solemn vow. I respected that vow. Even though a chap would have to have flying rodents in the bell tower to make a vow like that. But the glittering charm of this Wooster had shaken that vow. With a regretful sigh, I decided I would shake it no more. There was no percentage in thinking about him in any other way than as my manservant.

Upon my return, he took my raiment with nothing but, “Good evening, sir.”

I returned his greeting with a nod, careful not to glitter charmingly. “Good evening, Jeeves. Well, I’m off to bed! Cheerio!”

I went past him with all speed to my bedchamber.

 

On Wednesday we visited my tailor, Mr. Bowie, where Jeeves and I briefly clashed over a fruity orange and brown houndstooth, before I gave in and let him select a quiet gray herringbone. “It is quite elegant, Mr. Wooster,” Mr. Bowie said, with a nervous glance at Jeeves. The man had Mr. Bowie thoroughly cowed. One briefly thought of picking an orange tie with tiny white flowers on it just to give Jeeves the pip. And perhaps bring back the Jeeves I had not seen in what seemed like donkey’s years.  I had a brief flash of that Jeeves when he saw the houndstooth and his eyelid twitched. Ah, those carefree days of youth!

When we left Bowie’s establishment, I ordered the cabbie to take us to the Princess Theater. Jeeves shot me a look which indicated perturbation. “The Princess Theater, sir?”

“The Princess Theater, Jeeves,” I replied. “We are stopping in between shows to return Beryl’s cigarette case.” I showed him the chipped cheap enamel case. There was a brief look of pure hatred toward the thing, can you credit it? If Jeeves was going to turn up his nose toward the trinket because it wasn’t up to snuff, that was his look-out.

When we pulled up at the stage door alley, Jeeves made noises about remaining in the cab until my return.

“Certainly not, Jeeves, I’m not leaving this with the stage doorman,” I said with some asperity. The reluctant fellow came with me, even as his stuffed frog became even more filled with stuffing, which I had not thought possible.

I turned halfway up the alley to the stage door. “Jeeves, I have something to say to you.”

“Sir?”

I had to brace myself, but I had had _enough_.  Inside I qualified—no, that’s not it—I quailed at standing up to Jeeves. But by golly, Bertram was fed up!

“Jeeves. In recent weeks you have been impassive, aloof, in short, giving me the cold shoulder.”

“I don’t know what you mean, sir.”

“You bally well do know what I mean! I’m putting the well-shod foot down, Jeeves, I can’t live with this much longer. Either start wreathing yourself in smiles or give notice.” It was an empty threat—I would never accept Jeeves giving his notice—but damn it, I needed leverage.

Jeeves stared at me. It was rare—almost unheard of—for me to wax wroth at anyone, let alone my manservant. “I do not wish to give notice, sir,” he said quietly. “However, if you wish to dismiss me, that is your right.”

“Of course I don’t! Up until recent events, Jeeves, thou wert my guide, philosopher and handy-dandy evil genius. Since I’ve been taking Beryl around, you’ve been giving me the fish eye. Not only that, the fish is dead, lying on a slab of ice.”

Jeeves was silent. Finally, he spoke. “I am sorry, sir. If I may take the liberty, I have been waiting for you to announce your engagement with a certain sense of dread.”

So that was it! When the wife comes in the door, the valet is defenstrated. "No, no, Beryl and I are not in love. Nor are we intending to get married. This is not an _affaire du coeur_ , Jeeves. It is an _affaire des corps_ , to be blunt.  We enjoy each other’s company, but this is purely a temporary arrangement. Shall we? ” 

Chastened, Jeeves followed me silently. Only the trained eye could spot anything different about my man. The droop of the shoulders was unnoticeable to the ordinary observer. Why, I could almost hear his footsteps!

The stage doorman waved us in. We went up the concrete steps into the backstage area.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Wooster!” It was Minnie, the wardrobe mistress, built like a shipping container. ‘Aeroplane’ costumes were draped over her sturdy left arm. “Beryl’s that way, near the stage. Watch for the ropes.”

“Thank you, Minnie. Come along, Jeeves.” I proceeded to walk straight into a stout rope. I was so rattled I apologized to the rope.

We picked our way past various ropes, pulleys, and props. Beryl sat on the stage, leaning over and talking with the piano player, who was still in the pit.

“I swear, Tom, if we have to do that ‘London Lady’ number one more time, I’m going to bash in Zelda’s head with my Queen’s Guard rifle.”

“Bertie!” I heard a voice to my right.  I staggered, as the voice revealed itself to be Oofy Prosser.  Jeeves promptly stepped back and became invisible.

“Oofy! What are you doing here? Don’t tell me you’re dating one of the ensemble?” The image of one of the ugliest men in London with a beautiful girl on his arm didn’t bear thinking about. Except that I was thinking about it. Damn.

He puffed out his chest with a self-satisfied grin. “I _own_ the ensemble,” he announced.  “I am one of the principal producers of Node’s Jollities!  Node sold his name. He quit show business and moved out of the country to take up teak farming.”

Oofy Prosser, a theatrical producer? “Well, slap me hard and call me Sadie! You pried open your wallet to go into the theater?”

Oofy licked his lips and put his hands behind his back, rocking back on his heels. Under the best of circumstances Oofy’s face is remarkably hard to look at. This nearly caused me to drop to the ground in a faint.

“But surely—it boggles the mind—theater is not a sure thing. I’ve taken a few flyers at it myself and never with favorable results.”

“That’s where you’re a prize idiot, Bertie. Not that you aren’t at the best of times. I heard that ‘Node’s Jollities’ was having a bit of financial trouble due to one of the producers playing the ponies. The budget was affected, even though it’s been selling out every performance. Old Blumenfeld sought me out. He assured me that I would make back my investment and then some—“

“Blumenfeld?”

The corpus tottered. The bean swam. Fainting again appeared to be the best choice. But my head refused to swim in the proper way. I would have to have a word with it at a later time. Blumenfeld, the American producer of  the Broadway hit ‘Ask Dad’, in which Cyril Bassington-Bassington had a small part until Blumenfeld’s pestilential young son pronounced Cyril as having a “fish-face”. And that was the end of Cyril’s theatrical career. _That_ Blumenfeld.

“Would you believe it, old man, I made back my money in two weeks! And now it’s pure profit. There are other benefits of being a theatrical producer.” He gave me a the smile that almost caused the fainting wheeze. It was lascivious. I can assure you, you do not want to see Ooffy Prosser smile lasciviously. You will be scarred for life.

“You don’t need to be a producer to take out one of the chorus girls,” I protested.

“Don’t assume it’s one of the girls,” he said, that horrible smile still on his face. He turned toward the stage. “Eric! Eric, dear, come here, I want you to meet a friend of mine.”

A tall, slender chappie broke from studying sheet music and ambled over. He was built along Jack Buchanan lines. I recognized him as Eric Stanton, the star of ‘Node’s Jollities’.  “Yes, Alexander?”

“This is a friend of mine, Bertie Wooster.”

“Pleased to meet you,” he said, shaking my hand. Sudden shyness overcame me. Eric Stanton was one of the brightest lights in the West End. He’d even made a few motion pictures. While not in the Fred Astaire class, he was still a topping singer and dancer. “How do you like the show, Bertie?”

“Um--you are simply topping, old bean. The show is topping and well, it’s all quite...topping!” I blathered. I mean, Eric Stanton! He had the friendly, easy air of a well-known star used to speaking with blathering fans. My friendly, easy air was nowhere to be found. I mean, Eric Stanton! He was on cigarette cards!

“You’re the fellow going around with Beryl, aren’t you?”

My! That was an awfully personal question! “That’s an awfully personal question.”

“She’s a great girl.”

To my complete astonishment, Eric slid an arm around Oofy and favored him with the sort of look Madeline Bassett had thrown my way more than once! 

I mean, I say!

Oofy? An invert? An invert with such a dashing playmate? I mean to say, what? What!

“This is another reason I love the theater, Bertie,” Oofy said, returning the Bassett look on all six cylinders. “Where else would I have met somebody as outstanding as Eric?”

“But—but—in public?” I gasped.

“Bertie, the theater is full of us,” he answered. “Noel Coward? Ivor Novello? We hide in plain sight, you dolly chicken!”

“Dolly chicken?” I was baffled.

“It’s the old polari, Bertie,” Oofy said proudly.

"What's the old polari?"

Jeeves coughed softly behind me. I turned. “Yes, Jeeves?”

Jeeves was looking at Eric like he wanted to stick a hatpin up his nose. His eyebrows were drawn together a very tiny bit.

“Polari is a—a language, sir, rather like Cockney rhyming slang. It is derived from Mediterranean lingua franca, Romani, London slang, sailor slang, and other languages.”

“What?” Eric, Oofy and I all said simultaneously.

“I apologize for my forwardness, sir.”

Eric’s eyes swept over my valet’s form, coming to rest at that part we do not allude to in polite company. “What a bona basket on this butch.”

Jeeves’s gaze narrowed a fraction. “I’m afraid I do not understand you, sir.” Anyone who could read Jeeves’s expressions—that might be only me—knew he wanted to give Eric a punch on the nose and stamp on the remains.

“What did you just say to my man?”

Eric laughed. “Get one of the boys to explain it to you, Bertie. Come on, Oofy.”

“Sorry, boys, business to discuss!” Eric’s arm still around him, Oofy disappeared into the bowels of backstage.

“Did you see that?” I exclaimed to Jeeves. “Oofy Prosser and Eric Stanton!”

Before he could respond, there was a cry behind me.

“Bertie, lamb!” Beryl saw me from the stage. She came tripping up and kissed my cheek. “Hello, love. Hello, Jeeves!”

“Good afternoon, Miss Dixon.”

Beryl smiled at him. “I’ll wear you down, Jeeves. Bertie, what are you doing here?”

With a flourish _,_ I produced the cigarette case. “You left this behind at the Savoy.”

“Thank you! You’re sweet.” She kissed me on the lips. “After tonight’s show, I’d love to—“

“BERTRAM!” came a voice from the stage. Sandy Simpson came running over, delight plastered on his map. “Bertie, you scrumptious thing, you, couldn’t stay away, could you?”

Beryl smiled. “I lost my cigarette case. Bertie came all the way to the theater to give it to me.”

Sandy gave me one of those wolfish smiles. I didn’t dare look at Jeeves.

“We couldn’t have a dance at the Cafe de Paris. I must insist on a dance now!” Sandy grabbed my hand and pulled me through the wings to the stage. I threw a helpless look at Beryl. The woman also smiled! She was throwing me to the wolf!

“Tom, this is Bertie!” he said to the piano player. Tom was a rumpled roly-poly chap with curly black hair.

“Hi,” he drawled, uninterested.

“Tom, how’s about tickling the keys.” Sandy didn’t let go of my hand. Really, this was most embarrassing. Fortunately, few members of the company seemed inclined to peep at us. They must have seen men dancing with each other on an hourly basis. And not during the show, I’ll wager.

“Play the Merry Widow Waltz,” Sandy directed. He struck a pose. “ _I’m_ leading, pretty thing.”

Tom struck up the tune. Damn the man, Sandy started waltzing! He whirled me out to center stage!

 _Not a word, dear, have I heard, dear_  
_Yet I know_  
_You’ve not told me, but you hold me_  
_So I know_

“Sandy!” I said against his ear. He pressed his _groin_ against me, by Jove! In front of God and everybody! I tried to move away, but he wouldn’t let me go. Now I knew what taxi dancers went through on Sailors Night. However, I was enjoying myself. Entirely too much. If he twirled me, God and everybody would see precisely how much I was enjoying myself.

 _Words may be unspoken_  
_Yet I know you hear_  
_Music sighs, your heart replies_  
_I love you dear_

When he dipped me, above us, in the flies, hung the scenery. Was that the backdrop for ‘Clouds Couldn’t Dance Like You’? I shot a panicked glance at Beryl. Jeeves stood beside her, bearing a remarkable resemblance to a bull about to charge. Beryl caught my eyes and looked at Jeeves. With a quick nod at me, she grabbed Jeeves, pulled him out to the stage, and began waltzing with him! Can you credit it?

Tom the piano player seemed to be enjoying himself hugely, damn the man!

Jeeves swooped and swung Beryl around the stage, a tad more dramatic than self and Sandy.

Not to be outdone, Sandy swung me around, singing louder.

 _I hear the music play,_  
_It carries me away._  
_All sorrows will have flown_  
_When you are mine and mine alone._

This was a bit much!  I again shot my gaze Beryl-ward. Beryl didn’t seem to mind at all that young Wooster was being thrown about like an adagio dancer. She looked up at Jeeves, having a grand time.

Jeeves was not having a grand time. In fact, if you can describe waltzing as “ferocious”, he was demonstrating it dashed effectively. Well, blimey! It was not his place to disapprove of my curvetting with a dashing dancer, even if said dancer was a chap. Editing my wardrobe was one thing; editing my love life was quite another.

"Your man is fantabulosa," Sandy whispered against my cheek.

"Eh?"

Tom played the ending with a flourish. Sandy broke away, applauding loudly. I quietly crossed my legs.

“Bertie, you were swell! Beryl, you and Jeeves should go to one of those dance halls in Whitechapel and enter a dancing competition!” Sandy took hold of my hand. “Is this your manservant?”

“Yes, this is Jeeves. Jeeves, this is Sandy Simpson. He's in the show."

“Jeeves, my good fellow, you dance like a professional. Almost as good as your master. You should go on the stage!”

Beryl gave Jeeves a friendly pat on the shoulder. I was surprised her hand didn’t burst into flames. “No, I think lovely Mr. Jeeves would not like that at all, would you?”

“No, miss,” he replied. There was still a hint of the charging bull.

Beryl pulled me away from Sandy. “Now, Bertie, as I was saying, I want to see you after the show tonight. Please say you’ll come!”

“Of course I will, Beryl dearest.”

“Marvelous!” She gave me a hearty kiss and ran off towards the dressing rooms. Sandy was leaning against a flat and smiling at me like a—well, like a man of the world.

 

 

“I say, Jeeves, having both Beryl and Sandy fancying the young master is quite the pick-me-up!” I said as we entered the flat.

“Yes, sir. It must be most flattering.”

“Yes, it is! Two people captivated by the Wooster charm!” I pranced to the piano. “Lay out my evening raiment, Jeeves, I’m dining at the Drones, and then I shall pop off to the Princess Theater and we’ll see what’s what, what?”

“Very good, sir.”

“You certainly showed your stuff with Beryl! You were like an apostle—an appetizer—damn it! Those French coves!”

“ _Apache_ dancers, sir. It is a dramatic dance style derived from the French lower classes, meant to portray savagery.”

“Yes, an _apache_ dancer! Well, you didn’t swing Beryl around by her hair or throw her to the ground, still, the Jeeves I saw waltzing was a tad savage. I didn’t know you could be savage, Jeeves.”

“That is not the term I would use, sir.” His voice was filled with disapproval.

“Jeeves, the polari thing—what does a dolly chicken mean?”

If you can believe it, a spot of pink touched Jeeves’s cheeks! “It’s a compliment, sir. It means a pretty young man.”

“Oh! I’d rather be called handsome than pretty, pretty is a tad effeminate, still, one takes praise where one can. And what did it mean when he said you had a bona basket?”

The spot of pink on Jeeves’s face grew slightly pinker. “I’m certain I don’t know, sir.”

Bertram was certain Jeeves did know, but he didn’t want to put his valet in an uncomfortable position. “Just as well, Jeeves. No one would call you pretty—not that you aren’t staggeringly good-looking—um—handsome! That’s the word, handsome.” I broke out in a sweat. “Don’t let it go to your head, my good man!” I almost fell over my own feet in my haste to hide behind the safety of my piano. I confess, I played "The Merry Widow Waltz" with quite a bit of unnecessary pep. And I meant it to sting.

 

Jack Buchanan

 

 

Here is Jeannette MacDonald singing "The Merry Widow Waltz". Forgive the Asian subtitles; it was the clearest version I could find. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The Merry Widow", released in 1934, was an operetta starring Jeanette MacDonald and Maurice Chevalier.
> 
> Polari was a coded gay language, often used until homosexuality was decriminalized in 1967.
> 
> Jack Buchanan was a popular star of West End musicals.
> 
> "Apache" is French, and pronounced "a-pash".
> 
> The Princess Theater is imaginary, although all others in this story are not.


	7. Beryl Makes A Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bertie is dropped by Beryl and picked up by Sandy. Jeeves does not approve.
> 
>  
> 
> Comments are most desired!

I arrived a trifle before “Node’s Jollities of 1934” let out. I loitered in the alley, smoking a gasper. Laughing and chatting, the audience spilled out of the theater. It wasn’t until some time later that the company clattered out of the stage door, talking, laughing, slapping each other’s backs, all manner of hectic activity.

Wrapped in her blue wool coat, Beryl found me and we kissed chastely. Wouldn’t do to have a go at passionate labial action in front of others. Even if they were show people. “Thank you for coming,” she said. “I want to go to the Pig & Bun, tonight, if that isn’t ‘slumming it’.”

Truth be told, it was. The Pig & Bun was a disreputable dive near the theater. I’d been there once with Beryl. It did not meet with the Wooster standards, being loud, crowded with the masses, and not terribly clean. I felt uneasy. What was so important that Beryl needed to talk about it immediately, rather than waiting to be swept off to the Savoy or the Ritz?

We took a booth in the saloon. Rather than next to me, she sat across.

“Beryl? Why the distance? Why aren’t you snuggling up to what I am assured is one of the most comfortable shoulders in London?”

“What’ll it be?” asked the waitress, coming up behind me.

“Whiskey and soda for me, gin and tonic for the lady.”

With a curt nod, she vanished. Frowning, Beryl leaned forward, her hands crossed in front of her on the table.

“Bertie, we’ve been having fun, haven’t we?”

“I’ll say!”

“You know I like you most awfully.”

I did not like where this conversation was going. “Yes,” I said cautiously.

“Now, please don’t be upset, sweet, but I have some unpleasant news to tell you.”

There was a something in her voice that meant dashed bad news was forthcoming. She stared with great interest at the drink rings on the wooden table in the booth.

“Bertie, you know I’ve been seeing other men.”

“Yes, I do.”

“You know we said we weren’t in love?”

“We did.”

“I can’t go out with you anymore, Bertie.”

“Oh?” I sat back. “Why ever not?”

 “You’re a dear and I’ve had ever so good a time. But there’s a man...his name is Gerald. He’s in rehearsals for ‘The Royal Family’! Noel Coward is directing!”

“How jolly nice for him,” I said with quite a bit of sarcasm bunged in.

 “I’m sorry, Bertie. Gerald doesn’t want me to go around with other men.” She smiled. There was the faintest hint of guilt in it. Dash it, I wanted a ruddy huge hint of guilt! Dropping me for an actor? He must be some dolly chicken!

“He must be some dolly chicken!”

She gave me a startled look.

“Here’s yer drinks.” The waitress stuck them on the table as if she had something against them.

“I knew you’d be upset, Bertie.” Beryl reached across the table and took my hand. “We agreed that we’re not in love. I’m in love with Gerald. You do understand, don’t you?”

I unshipped a sigh. “Yes, I do. But you’ve been the most jolly companion a fellow could want. And you have bally marvelous legs.”

"You are the most darling man, Bertie.” Beryl squeezed my hand. “That’s one reason I introduced you to Sandy. He’s a decent fellow, and enjoys a good time. You could do worse.”

I felt myself turn as red as a beet. Beryl had arranged this Sandy fellow because she meant to give me the gate? Without a single word of warning? Didn’t she realize she was throwing me to the wolf, as it were?

“That’s not cricket, old girl. You should have said something.” I drained my w. and s. “A subtle word here or there would have done. Instead of slapping me in the face with a halibut.”

“Slapping you in the face with a what?” She took a healthy sip of her gin and tonic. “Bertie, it’s a shame we can’t go on the way we have. But I have to respect Gerald’s wishes. We can still be friends. We are friends, aren’t we, Bertie dearest?”

“Yes, we're friends,” I echoed. I was genuinely surprised at how much this was affecting me. There was none of the relief I felt when Jeeves disentangled me from an engagement. Did I love Beryl? No, I did not. That didn’t make it easier. I hadn’t enjoyed being with a beazel since—since, well, ever.

“Go out with Sandy. Go to the clubs where you’re safe. Sandy’s a good egg, I promise. And he likes you very much.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed that,” I said.

Beryl stood, and made a great show of straightening her coat and hat. “Let’s not say good-bye, my dear. Good luck, and I’ll see you soon.” She thrust out her hand for a handshake.

I took her hand and shook it. After all, the Code of the Woosters demanded _politesse_ , even when a girl had just handed me the mitten.

After Beryl left, I called for another whiskey and soda, light on the soda. Then another.

 

I left the pub, weaving a tad, smoking a Turkish. Who was I to stand in the way of true love? Was I ever going to find true love? Would I even recognize the bally thing if it happened? Dash it all!

“Bertie!”

Sandy emerged from the darkness near the door of the Pig & Bun. “Bertie Wooster, as I live and breathe! What are you doing, prowling the alleys at this hour?”

“Beryl turned me down like a bedspread,” I blurted. The whiskey had gone to my head—more specifically, the part of my head that valued discretion.

Sandy looked at me sympathetically and took my hand. “You poor man,” he clucked. “Don’t worry, sweet, no one can see us. Even if they did, they don’t care. We’re all ponces here.”

“I feel bally awful,” I confessed.

“No one likes breaking up, you silly thing.” Still holding my hand, Sandy drew me farther into the darkness. “Let me make you feel better. I’ll make you feel better.”

 _What the hell_ , I thought, and followed him into the alley.

As soon as we were safely hidden, Sandy pulled me against him, kissing me and thrusting his tongue into my mouth. Ordinarily I would demanded we spend a bit of time before going right into the important stuff, but this wasn’t ordinarily. I needed this. Sandy smelled good, his tongue knew what it was doing, and my manly bits were saying _very pleased to meet you_!

“Does that feel good,” he murmured. “Does that feel really, really good?”

“Oh, yes, I’ll say!”

“I’ll make you feel so good you’ll want to _scream_ , my darling. But you have to be quiet. Let me make you feel good, sweet, let me make you feel good.”

His slender fingers were unbuttoning my fly buttons. With a sigh, I leaned back against the wall.  I wanted to feel good, and this fellow was a man of the world.

 

Jeeves opened the door before I had a chance to get out my key. “Good evening, sir.”

I staggered in, a bit worse for wear and whiskey. “Good evening, Jeeves, and a good evening it is!”

“Sir?”

“I’m not only a dolly chicken, I am a jolly chicken!”

“Sir?”

I gave Jeeves an exaggerated wink. “That Sandy is a man of the world, Jeeves.”

“I had not noticed, sir.”

If there was a touch of disapproval in his voice, what care I? None, that’s what I cared. Sandy had indeed made me feel very, very good. “Beryl dropped me like a hot potato, and Sandy was there to pick me up. Which he did. Pick me up, I mean.” I gave a drunken giggle.

“Yes, sir. I have laid out our coral pajamas, sir. Will there be anything further?”

I waved a hand. “No, no, Jeeves, go have a kip. I shall see myself out.”

On wobbly legs, I made my way to the bedroom. I thought I heard Jeeves slam the front door. No, Jeeves didn’t slam doors. It must have been something else, perhaps a noise from outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The Royal Family", directed by Noel Coward and starring Laurence Olivier, opened at the Lyceum Theater in 1934. It was a satire of the Barrymore theater family.
> 
> The Pig & Bun is a pub in London's theater district.


	8. Jeeves To The Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bertie finds Sandy's advances unwelcome.
> 
> Warning for mild non-con.
> 
> At the bottom of the chapter are pictures of Arthur Askey and Vinolia soap.
> 
> Comment and let me know how I'm doing!

“Good morning, sir,” Jeeves set down the morning Darjeeling on the bedside table.

“Good morning, Jeeves!” Gosh, I felt gloomy this morning. Beryl handing me the mitten and then finding solace in an alley with Sandy. Now that I was sober, I was not proud of myself. No, I was ashamed. All quite sordid, quite sordid. When you examined it, it had not been a good evening for this Wooster. This dolly jolly chicken was no longer jolly.

A small consolation was that Jeeves sounded more like his old self than he had in a long time. He placed one of his restoratives next to the tea. I swallowed it, endured the fireworks in my brain, and watched my valet putter about, selecting the day’s raiment.

“How’s the weather today?”

“It is fair and slightly above the average temperature. However, cumulus clouds would indicate rain later in the day.” He opened the curtains. Watery sunlight crossed the bedroom Aubusson.

I drew up my knees and rested my head and arms on them. “Jeeves,” I asked, “have you ever been dippy about somebody? Dippy, floating above the pavement, sodden over some beauteous frail?”

“I believe the word you mean to use is, in your vernacular, 'soppy'.”

The man was not about to divulge his secrets. I couldn’t reveal that I knew a woman had broken his heart. It would have to remain locked in the Wooster vault, along with my keen fascination with Arthur Askey. “I haven’t,” I said, burying my chin deeper into my pajama’d arms. “I wasn’t in love with Beryl. But I’m going to miss her. We had a grand time together, Jeeves, even if you didn’t approve.”

“I am sorry, sir.”

The only thing that kept me from snapping “sez you” was that a gentleman does not snap “sez you” at his personal gentleman.

“She’s fallen in love, Jeeves. Sometimes I think the thingummy that falls in love simply isn’t in the Wooster corpus—or brain—or whatever makes people fall in love.”

“You underestimate yourself, sir,” Jeeves said, carefully considering my ties.

“The green and yellow tie, Jeeves.”

“Sir?” Jeeves looked at me. “The green and yellow tie does not suit, sir.”

“Of course it bally well suits!’

“If I may say so, sir, it makes you look jaundiced.”

“Rot! It flatters the fabled Wooster complexion. I mean to say, this complexion could be featured in Vinolia Soap advertisements! Don’t go chucking that tie into the fireplace, nor dropping it out the kitchen window, nor finding a cat that can be sick on it. I’m wearing it, and that’s that.”

“Very good, sir.” He returned to selecting a shirt.

I heaved a sigh so deep it could have come from the flat below. “Ah, Jeeves, I shall not vex not my soul with dead philosophy, what? Is that the songwriter Irving Berlin?”

Jeeves conjured a pair of socks that were distressingly drab when compared to my tie. “The poet Wilde, sir. ‘Vex not thy soul with dead philosophy, have we not lips to kiss with, hearts to love and eyes to see’.”

“I’ve lips to kiss with, Jeeves, and eyes to see, but the old heart...draw my bath, there’s a good fellow. A good old splash and my rubber ducky’s company shall hoist up the lowered spirits.”

 

After the good old splash as well as a hearty breakfast, my lowered spirits had not been hoisted. I sat at the piano, playing the cheeriest tunes I could think of, when I started playing “Won’t You Aeroplane With Me?” Damn!

The doorbell rang. Jeeves answered the door, to find Sandy Simpson without! Not without, he was in possession of a hat and coat, but without, if you know what I mean. In the passage. I was not pleasantly surprised. In the cold light of afternoon, our actions of the night before felt unworthy of a descendant of the Woosters who fought at Agincourt. What would they have thought, if they knew said descendant had it off with a man in an alley? “You are disowned, descendant! Change your name and leave the country eftsoons!”

“Mr. Simpson, sir,” Jeeves said. Although to the casual observer Jeeves appeared placid as he took Sandy’s hat and coat, it was clear to me that if he had his way, Sandy would be thrown out the kitchen window, along with my tie.

“Bertie, darling!” Sandy threw his arms open as I stood. He threw them around me and kissed me. I was a tad nonplussed. _Oh, to hell with my descendants_. I kissed him back, tasting coffee and tobacco on his lips. But then I remembered we were not alone.

“Good afternoon, old thing,” I said nervously, stepping away. “Jeeves, some tea for the gentleman.”

“And biscuits,” Sandy added.

“Very good, sir.” Jeeves footed it to the kitchen, his back radiating disapproval.

“It’s grand to see you again, Bertie.”

“Yes, very.” I ran a hand over the back of my head, hoping to emanate some of Fred Astaire’s self-assurance.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I just had to pop round.” He swayed toward me. We kissed again, but it wasn’t as enjoyable in the daylight. Still, any port in a storm...Sandy’s port was probably quite nice. Oh, dear, my motor was getting overheated.

“Sandy, we shouldn’t be doing this.”

“Oh! I apologize, Bertie, but you are absolutely scrumptious. How many others are you seeing besides me, you devil?”

“None—nobody. Let’s sit down, shall we? Take a load off and all that?” I guided him to the sitting room.

“Let’s explore your big, soft bed, sweet.”

“Sandy, it’s a bit early for that sort of activity, don’t you think?”

Sandy smiled. “I thought about you all of last night, Bertie. I pulled myself off remembering your eyes when—“

“Oh, I say! Here we are in the sitting room, eh? Have a seat, old fruit.” I dropped onto the sofa without thinking. By without thinking, I mean that I gave the chappie plenty of room to sit next to me. Which said chappie did. He slid a warm finger down the side of my face. I couldn’t help giving a little exhalation.

“Hang on!” I tried for an indulgent chuckle, moving my head away. “We don’t want Jeeves—“

“Why should that bother you? He’s only a servant.”

I made a sharp retort—or rather, I would have, except that Sandy was suddenly trying to find my tonsils with his tongue. I scooted back against the sofa, pushing him away. He broke contact, his expression puzzled.

“Bertie? What’s the matter? You liked me last night.”

“Yes, yes, I did—but—“

“You can’t fool me, little boy.” His hand reached down and rubbed my John Thomas through my trousers. “See?”

“Sandy, this caveman routine is simply not on!”

He gave one of those man of the world smiles, and slipped his other arm around me.  I felt a sudden desire to be somewhere else. Anywhere else.

“You _love_ it,” Sandy whispered. 

“See here, Sandy, you are seriously mistaken about Bertram if you think these tactics will make you more appealing, quite the opposite. Unhand me!”

“Unhand me? We’re not in some Victorian melodrama, Bertie. Send your man on an errand and let’s have a replay of last night. I want to make you feel very, very good.”

“Sandy—“

“Stop fighting, pretty thing.”

“Kindly let go of my master, or I shall make you regret the day you were born,” said a quiet Jeeves-toned voice. Jeeves stood over us with the tea tray, looking approximately ten feet tall. He was as white as a sheet. I had never seen that expression on Jeeves’s dial before. Even barely changing his usual unflappable manner, he seemed quite capable indeed of making Sandy regret the day he was born. The things on the tea tray didn’t even rattle.

“ _What_ did you say?” Sandy demanded. “You’re a servant, how _dare_ you speak to me like that? Bertie, how can you let your valet address me in that manner?”

I saw my chance. “Sandy, perhaps you’d best hie yourself out of here. When Jeeves gets like this, it takes six men sitting on him to calm him down. We don’t want to send for six men, do we? Awfully difficult to summon six men on a moment’s notice, what? Here, let me see you out.”

Pushing Sandy off, it was the work of a moment to grab his hat and coat, and trot him out the front door. He turned to me.

“I’m sorry, Bertie, I didn’t mean to upset—“

“No fear, I’ll calm the ferocious beast!”

“Promise me you’ll see me later!”

“Sandy—“

“ _Promise me!_ You must promise me!”

“Oh, bally hell, yes!”

“During the interval tonight. You promised!”

I shut the door and slumped against it in relief.

Jeeves still stood in the same spot, holding the tea tray. The color was returning to his face. “I am sorry, sir, my behavior was unforgivable.”

“Unforgivable? How could you think that, Jeeves! Um...you can put the tea things down.”

With a slight nod, Jeeves put the tray on the table.

“You were glorious, Jeeves! You arrived in the nick of time! The cavalry riding over the mountainside in time to save the settlers! The dashing hero rescuing the damsel in distress!" I gibbered. "You saved the young master’s bacon! Well, not my bacon, I’ve eaten my bacon, but the metaphorical bacon, of course. If I was a damsel in distress, I would be falling on your neck and sobbing my gratitude! Uh—oh dear me—but I’m not a damsel, good thing, eh? Can’t have me falling on your neck—my, but I’m quite flustered. How are you faring?”

He studied the teapot with great interest. “I fear that I lost control of myself, sir. When I saw Mr. Simpson holding you down, I—“ He gave a small cough. “Again, I am sorry, sir. I shall be better directly. Will you be dining in?” Suddenly he was his normal self. If possible, even more normal than was his wont. In other words, he had slammed and locked the door on any further discussion of Mr. Sandy Simpson.

“I shall be dining out, Jeeves. After that, I shall be going to the Princess Theater to give that Simpson cove a piece of my mind!”

“Sir...?” Jeeves frowned. “Do you think that a good idea after what happened?”

“I gave him my promise, Jeeves. A Wooster does not break his promise, no matter how abominably the promisee behaved. I shall tick him off properly, and no mistake! I’m going to tick Beryl off as well, for introducing me to that blighter!”

Jeeves considered me for a moment. “Very good, sir.  Do you require anything further?”

“Um...no, thank you, Jeeves.”

He picked up the tea tray. And with that he was gone.

 

 

Arthur Askey

 

 


	9. Blondes And Blumenfelds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bertie's talk with Sandy goes horribly wrong.

As he was hoisting me into the soup and fish, Jeeves stood behind me and cleared his throat, so softly that the only reason I knew was that I was looking in the mirror at him.

“Do you feel it is in your best interest in see Mr. Simpson, sir? There might be more unpleasantness.”

I glared at him—or rather, his reflection. Odd, I’d never thought about his hair parting on the other side. “Your hair is parted on the other side, Jeeves,” I remarked. “Everyone’s hair is parted on the other side in the mirror. So we never know what we really look like with our hair parted, do we? Interesting, that, eh?”

“Indeed, sir,” he said coldly. But he was not about to let _l'affaire de_ Sandy drop. “Perhaps it would be wiser to ask Mr. Simpson here so that you might converse in private, sir?”

“You’re joking! He’s terrified of you, Jeeves! I would be, too, if I’d ever seen you goggling at me like that. Like a lion about to pounce on an antelope and make _tartare d'antilope_ out of it! No, the theater is the place. We’ll be in public, it’s not as if he can seize the willowy Wooster form in front of everyone. I gave my word, and the Code demands that I see this through. As I said, I shall tick him off properly."

“Shall I go with you, sir?”

“Absolutely not!” I turned, so that I could glare at him in the correct direction. Huh, he did look different with his hair parted correctly. I wondered why I’d never thought of that. “Don’t imply that young Wooster cannot handle himself in a sticky situation. I’ve had more sticky situations than you’ve made hot dinners.”

Jeeves was tactful enough not to point out that he’d been the one to remove me from those sticky situations. He followed me to the front door, where I fetched my silk scarf and ebony evening whangee. “Don’t give yourself gray hairs, Jeeves, I shall be back well before midnight.”

“Very good, sir.” He closed the door after me, and I ventured into the night. I had not been honest with my valet; the prospect of seeing Sandy had me a jumpy as a cricket with epilepsy. But as I had admonished Jeeves, we would be surrounded by theater folk. And even theater folk draw the line at one gentleman ravishing another gentleman for all to see.

I hoped so, anyway.

 

As promised, I arrived at the stage door at the Princess Theater toward the end of the first act of “Node’s Jollities of 1934” A comedian with a large red false nose who fell down a lot while reciting filthy limericks was making a great hit with the audience. He had made me laugh until breath took a vacation from my lungs and I almost did an impromptu impression of Camille right there in the aisle.

Who should I immediately run into but that blister Blumenfeld, the producer from New York, and his blighted son Sidney. Blumenfeld was a hard fellow to forget, try as I might. He was one of those men who was almost as wide as he was tall, with a hairless dome that gleamed under the dim backstage lights. He had probably become a producer for the same reason Oofy had. One could not imagine a beazel going within fifteen feet of this fellow of her own free will.

“Hullo, Blumenfeld,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t recognize me.

“That’s the man who yelled ‘FIRE!’, Pop,” said the evil midget who shared his last name.

Blumenfeld squinted at me through his spectacles.

The painful memory the blighted kid had revived had been the premature demise of Cyril Bassington-Bassington’s theatrical career, caused by said blighted kid when he called Cyril “fish-face” to his father. Unfortunately, this was followed by my replacing Cyril for his one and only line. Overcome with stage fright, I’d screamed “FIRE”, upon which the local fire brigade stormed in and rather wrecked the surrounds, what with fire hoses and many pairs of hobnailed boots.

Fortunately, Blumenfeld didn’t seem to hold it against me. “Hello—uh—“

“Bertram Wooster. Congratulations on your show! It is indeed an evening of sprightly entertainment, laughs and song! My toes tapped for days afterwards. In fact, I had to lash them together with stout rope to keep them still."

“I don’t like him, Pop,” said young Blumenfeld. I refrained from informing him the feeling was returned in spades.

“Now, Sidney darling, he’s not in the show—“ he paused and looked at me, alarmed. “You’re not in the show, are you?”

“No, no! I’ve stayed off the boards since ‘Ask Dad’—safer for the general populace, don’t you know.” I almost added something about the old saw, “shouting ‘fire’ in a crowded theater", but remembered it might not be the intelligent thing to do. Since I already had. Done it, I mean.

“Huh.” Blumenfeld decided I was of no importance and walked away. Sidney stuck his tongue out at me. I am ashamed to say I did the same at him.

Beryl walked by, dressed for the number that closed the first act, a funny little white dress with black musical notations on it, and a top hat. She really did have bally marvelous legs.

“Bertie! What are you doing here?” Her penciled eyebrows nearly collided with her hairline. “Please, don’t—“

I raised a hand. “Do not worry your lovely self, Miss B.. I am here to speak with Sandy Simpson. You do know he behaved in a most untoward manner toward self, do you not?”

“Oh, no, Bertie! I’m so sorry.” Stricken, that’s how she looked. Absolutely stricken. “I knew he was a bit forward, but you seemed to be getting on so well.”

“We were, but then his advances were, I mean to say, they were most unwelcome. If Jeeves had not intervened, my virtue—“

“You don’t have a virtue, Bertie. Not from where I was lying.”

“Be that as it may, Beryl, he forced himself upon me.”

“Then what are you doing here?” She glanced toward the stage. “Bertie, my cue’s coming up!”

A number of girls, dressed identically in gold spangled costumes and aeroplane hats, were lining up on either side in the wings.

“He made me promise to see him during the interval.”

“Oh, _Bertie_.”

“It’s the Code of the Woosters, I cannot break a promise.”

Before she could say more, the orchestra struck up the first notes of “Won’t You Aeroplane With Me?” She ran over to join the line of girls. They danced out to the stage, smiling and kicking, to thunderous applause.

I wandered around, trying not to bump into anyone or anything, gathering a number of angry looks from the stagehands. In the flurry of clowns, dancers, acrobats and singers, Sandy was not to be found.

“Dammit, Jenny, you keep losing the line in your turns!” Sandy was storming along, his dance partner, Jennifer Jakes, trailing after him in a cloud of blue chiffon and tears. “I don’t dance with _amateurs_.”

“You can’t speak to me that way, Sandy, not in front of the company!” She pulled off her blonde wig, revealing short black hair under a wig cap.

“You’re a ridiculous baggage. I’d be better off as a single. I get all of the good notices—“ He saw me, and his face changed instantly from rage to a huge happy grin. “Bertie! You darling!”

Bringing her hand to her mouth, Miss Jakes walked quickly away.

Incensed by how he treated his dance partner, I drew myself up to my full height. “I say, Sandy, that is a terrible way to speak to a lady, let alone your partner! No matter how enraged you are, there is a line not to be crossed, and you jolly well crossed it!”

Sandy gave an exasperated shrug. “Don’t get your kaffies in a twist, Bertie.”

“What?”

“I’ve known Jenny forever.” He shrugged contritely. “It’s not as bad as it seems. We’re old pals. She made a few mistakes tonight, I got a bit hot under the collar, nothing that hasn’t happened dozens of times. We’ll make up in no time. Don’t worry yourself over it.” Damn, the dim light of the wings, combined with his stage makeup, made him look absolutely delectable. Why did he have to be so dashed good-looking?  Nevertheless, I steeled myself.

“Then I’ll wait here until you apologize to her.” I drew out my cigarette case in a marked manner.

“Very well, I’ll be back in a flash, don’t scarper off.”

Listening to the strains of “Won’t You Aeroplane With Me?” I smoked an anxious cigarette.

_“Ride up to the sky with me_  
_Won’t you aeroplane with me?_  
_We’ll fly through the sky_  
_So in love, you and I_  
_Won’t you aeroplane with me?_

Sandy appeared at my elbow. “All better, sweet. I apologized, Jenny’s all right now. Would you like to meet her?”

“Rather! Despite what you said, Miss Jakes is a spiffing dancer.”

He took my arm and guided me through the crush. “In a few minutes the act one closing is happening and we won’t be able to move through here at _all._ She’s in our dressing room.” We ‘pardon me’d’ through the people swarming around us, until we came to the first floor dressing rooms. SIMPSON AND JAKES, the sign said. If you can believe it, I had not the slightest notion of what was about to happen. If I had, I would have stayed home and refused all callers. And by all callers, I mean Sandy Simpson.

The door swung open, to reveal a blonde wig on a stand, a crumpled blue dress on a settee, and no Jennifer Jakes.

“Damn it,” Sandy exclaimed, hands on his hips. “She _would_ be temperamental. Another time, Bertie.” He closed the dressing room door and indicated for me to take the old oak chair by the makeup table. Telegrams and postcards were stuck into the edges of the mirror. A large Oriental screen to change behind was at the far end of the room; on the near side was a rack full of costumes.

Sandy knelt on the floor before me and took my hand.

“You’re not going to propose, are you?” I asked nervously.       

He smiled up at me, giving me the full Ronald Colman. “Bertie, I apologize. I feel godawful about what happened at your flat. I had no right to do what I did. But you’re so handsome, your blue eyes, your sweet face, that sweet neck, well, any man in my place would have been carried away. It won’t happen again. I treated you right last night, didn’t I?” His other hand gently caressed my knee. When I looked down, he immediately removed it.

“Nothing happens without your permission, Bertie,” he crooned. “I’m a man of my word, too. Since we met, I’ve dreamt about you every night. But you needn’t worry. I shall behave myself.”

I was blushing. “Thank you, Sandy. I say, I’m not used to this. I’m usually the one dishing out the compliments.”

“Then you haven’t been treated right. Attention should be lavished on you. _You_ should be dancing with me, not Jennifer.”

A startled laugh burst out of me. “I say, two coves dancing would have to be at an invert’s club!”

“We waltzed like we were meant to dance together always,” he crooned. My cheeks were reddening, and my trousers were getting tight. Oh, dear, how was I going to tick him off good and proper when my thoughts wandered to the previous night in the alley? Sandy had been so expert—

“You’d make a beautiful woman, Bertie,” he said with a sigh. “Those huge blue eyes.”

“Don’t be silly, Sandy, old man.”

“Here.”

Before I could bless myself, he’d popped Jennifer’s blonde wig on my head. He took the chair and turned it so that I was looking at myself in the mirror.

“Oh, I _say_ , Sandy—“ I reached up to take it off.

“Sit still.” Quick as a wink, he’d grabbed some greasepaint and was smearing it on my face with a light, practiced touch. He ran his fingers along my cheeks as he did so, his eyes alight. “Yes, you are so lovely, Bertie. Please, let me do this.” I don’t how to describe how I felt. Conflux—contem—confused, that’s the word I want.

He continued in a soft voice: “I’d hate to think you were one of those toffs who look down on men like me because we’re show people.”

“Heavens, no, Sandy!”

My lower parts wanted a replay of the previous night pronto, but my upper parts were wondering if what was happening right now was the best idea.

“Or one of those ‘nobles’ who pick up and put down a lover like a cheap toy.” He took a small pot of blue eye paint. "Close your eyes, sweet." He proceeded to stroke it onto my eyelids.

“It’s enraging to have a rich man use a man and toss him aside once he’s finished with him. A rich man who can do whatever he wants with whomever he wants.”

I opened my eyes and watched Sandy apply rouge to my cheeks, lip rouge to my mouth, all so quickly I could barely follow. I’d certainly donned women’s clothes before, as had most of the Drones. But I had never gone to such lengths.

He sang under his breath as he painted me like a canvas.

 _Oh, boy I'm lucky_  
_I'll say I'm lucky_  
_This is my lucky day_

 “See? You could be on a magazine cover.” He adjusted the wig slightly.

“Oh, my.” I didn’t see a magazine cover in my future. I certainly did not look like Bertram Wilberforce Wooster. If anything, I looked like my sister Julia. Although Julia might take exception to that. While I was staring at myself, Sandy proceeded to nuzzle my neck. I couldn’t help a small hiss. Oh, dear.

He stood me up and looked me over from head to toe. Getting into the spirit of thing, I cocked my head flirtatiously to the side.

“Why, Mr. Simpson, how you flatter me,” I said coquettishly. _You should not be doing this, Wooster_ , a little voice in my head warned. I told the little voice to scrambooch, I had business to attend to.

Sandy picked up Jennifer’s discarded blue dress. He draped it on my front. “Yes, perfect.”

This was great fun. I was tarted up like a Busby Berkley blonde.  Sandy put his arms around me. “Bertie, someone should take a picture of you,” Sandy said.

“Smile!”

A flash went off. Standing next to the costume rack was a darkish sort of cove in a cheap suit, holding a camera.


	10. Unexpected Complications

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jeeves finds a way. Until he doesn't.
> 
> This chapter and the previous one could never have been written without the help of the estimable Wotwotleigh!
> 
> Comments make me smile in my sleep.

Startled, I jumped away from Sandy. “Here, I say!” I exclaimed. “What the bally hell is this?”

A complete change came over Sandy’s face. Gone was the sly affection. In its place, something quite ugly. Rare—rat—rapacious, I think that’s the baby. “You’re not going to throw me away when you’re done, Bertie. I’m making sure of that. I’m not some toff’s dilly-boy.”

“Do you intend to blackmail me?”

“That’s up to you.”

“But _you’re_ in the picture as well!”

He grinned at the darkish cove, who smiled back. “I’m in the _picture_ , Johnny.” They both laughed. “The back of my head, Bertie. I might be ‘lower class’, but I’m not stupid.”

I looked from Sandy to the darkish cove, apparently this “Johnny”.

“But I mean to say, Sandy, how could you do such a thing? What have I done to you? If you needed scratch, you had only to ask—“

Before Sandy could answer, the door swung open, and there was young Sidney Blumenfeld.

“Golly,” he said, eyes bulging.

“Sidney, darling, where are—“ Blumenfeld appeared behind him. His eyebrows raised, and I could see nothing good was going to come of this. “What are you two doing? In MY theater? I don’t care what you do on your own time, but in _my_ theater!” He took a closer look at me. “Wooster?”

Oofy Prosser came up behind _him._ “Bertie?” He smiled. “Sandy and Bertie! I’d heard a rumor among the chorus boys.”

“Bertie—“ Oh God, Beryl. Her eyes darted from Sandy to me. There was quite the crowd at the dressing room door, drinking in my humiliation.

I found my voice. “Beryl, it’s not what you think—“

A gentle cough, like a sheep standing on a faraway mountain, broke the silence.

Jeeves stood at the far end of the room. Even in his bowler hat, coat and gloves, damned if he didn’t look like one of those Roman soldier statues in the Vatican!

“Jeeves!” I gargled.

How had he gotten in here? Was there no end to his powers? Jeeves inclined his head toward Mr. Prosser.

“If I might explain, Mr. Prosser.”

“That’s a hot one! How do you explain _this_?” snapped Blumenfeld.

“Mr. Wooster was planning a surprise for your birthday party, sir.”  

“My what?”

“Your birthday party, sir.” Jeeves turned toward me and lifted an apologetic eyebrow. “I am sorry, sir, I did not mean to ruin the surprise.”

I goggled at him, feeling the ground under me take a 45 degree turn. “Birthday party?”

Jeeves inclined his head. “Yes, sir. The birthday party on Sunday.” He turned to Oofy. “Mr. Wooster has arranged to take over the Pink Slipper on Sunday, when the theater is dark, so that members of this company can present individual acts for your entertainment, sir. Miss Beryl is in charge of the entertainment.”

“I have?” I gagged.

“I am?” gasped Beryl.

Oofy’s face lit up like an overheated gas lamp. “I say, that’s bloody marvelous, Bertie. I would never have expected such a generous gesture, old top!” His eyes narrowed. “You’re not expecting me to pay for any of this?”

Dumbfounded, I shook my head.

“Mr. Wooster and Mr. Simpson were practicing their presentation, a highly entertaining recreation of Mr. Fred Astaire and Miss Ginger Rogers’s performance in ‘Night And Day’ from the recent motion picture, ‘The Gay Divorcee’, sir.”

I wanted to grab Jeeves by the shoulders and shriek my gratitude for all to hear. But seeing as how the dressing room was stuffed with Blumenfelds, Prossers, Beryls, and blackmailers, the best thingummy was to hold my tongue and prevent self from dropping unconscious to the floor from shock and relief.

“Ah, I thought they were gonna kiss!” young Blumenfeld pouted. I wished him dead.

“Yes!” I cried. “Yes, yes, you don’t think I’d dress this way for any _other_ reason, do you, Oofy? I mean to say, in a wig and women’s clothes?”

“That’s marvelous!” Oofy turned to Sandy. “Capital idea, my boy, capital idea! Bertie dressed as Ginger Rogers! What a scream!”

Despite my frazzled emotions, I drew myself up to my full height. “I’ll have you know, Oofy, I make a spiffing Ginger Rogers.”

Jeeves gave another of those gentle coughs. He indicated Johnny, who was looking a tad panicked around the edges. “Mr. Wooster was having photos taken of the various artistes involved for a humorous collection of photographs of the company preparing for your birthday celebration, Mr. Prosser.”

Johnny had been trying to ease out the door, next to Beryl.  With admirable presence of mind, she grabbed the camera from him with a bright smile. “Thank you,” she said.

“Hey!” he protested.

“We’ll send you a cheque.” There was a dangerous sweetness in her tone.

Johnny looked around, and decided it was best to make his departure _sans_ camera. I raised a triumphant eyebrow at Sandy.

“We’ve been rehearsing for days—“ Sandy started to say.

Jeeves interrupted smoothly. “Sir, regrettably, Mr. Simpson cannot be your dance partner. He has accepted a job in the traveling company of  ‘Jill Darling’, currently at the Northumberland Gaiety Theater. Mr. Simpson must leave directly tonight. There is a train at 12:35. Mr. Simpson’s luggage is waiting for him at the station.”

 “Hang on—“ Sandy interrupted, but apparently realized it would not be the smart thing to do to protest in front of this crowd.

“It is unfortunate,” said Jeeves.

“Too bad, Sandy, old man,” I said graciously. “There’s no one else who could be Fred Astaire to my Ginger Rogers. I feel positively star-crossed. So, we’ll just have to abandon the idea, what?”

“Oh, no, I know who could do it,” Beryl had a vengeful gleam in her eye. “Jeeves.”

“Jeeves?”

“I’ve danced with him, he’s _perfect._ ” She batted her eyelashes at my manservant. Whose left eyebrow looked unpleasantly surprised.

I was expected to be Ginger Rogers to Jeeves’s Fred Astaire?  If I was to impersonate anyone, it should be Fred Astaire! His lithe movements, his immaculate dress, his _joie de vivre_ —I mean to say, it was no contest!

“If I am to impersonate anyone, it should be Fred Astaire!” I exclaimed. “Look at me—“ I realized I was still holding the blue chiffon up to my shoulders and wearing the blonde wig. “Well, don’t look at me now, I’m in a dress—but any other time! Fred and I could be twins!”

“Bertie, darling,” Beryl said pityingly, “Jeeves _has_ to be Fred Astaire. He’s too big to be Ginger Rogers.” She threw Jeeves a pretty smile. “You will be marvelous as Fred Astaire, Jeeves. Even if you are three times his size.”

“Thank you, Miss Beryl, but it might be best if Mr. Wooster availed himself of one of the professional dancers in the company—“

“Now what fun would that be?” Oofy cried. “It’ll be a riot!  Bertie, I can’t thank you enough! I’m chuffed to the hairline!”

“Now that’ll be a hell of a show,” Blumenfeld said, rubbing his hands together.

“That big galoot ain’t no Fred Astaire,” Sidney B. complained.

“That’s what makes it such a hell of a show, darling,” his father said.

“It’s too bad Jenny won’t be able to be in the show, now that I’m going,” Sandy said triumphantly. “It’ll break her heart.”

“She will have a new dance partner, Mr. Simpson. Eric Stanton, the star of the show, has let it be known that he would pleased to step into your shoes,” Jeeves said, the merest wisp of a smile playing about his lips.

“Eric Stanton?” I gasped.

“What?” cried Oofy. “Eric didn’t tell me that! He tells me _everything_!”

“It had to be hastily decided, as Mr. Simpson’s exit from the Jollities came about suddenly. As you know, sir, Mr. Stanton is quite fond of publicity.”

“True, he’ll show up at the opening of an envelope,” Blumenfeld observed. Oofy shot him an offended look for slandering his beloved.

“Mr. Stanton will reap a great deal of publicity, stepping in to help a struggling young dancer whose act has been forced to break up. A reporter for the _Daily Chronicle_ is doing a story for this Sunday’s edition.”

My head was spinning.

Beryl gave a yip. “I haven’t changed my costume! The interval’s ending! I’ll give you a ring after the show, Bertie.” She turned to Jeeves. “Thank you.”

Jeeves acknowledged her thanks with an incline of the head. She scampered off, holding the camera. I had no doubt it would find a fitting end.

“That’s right!” Oofy exclaimed. “Bertie, thank you! You’re a pal! See you Sunday night!”

“We’re coming too,” announced the young squirt to his father.

“Now, darling, you’re not old enough to see entertainment like that,” Blumenfeld admonished.

“Baloney! You let me watch ‘Love and Babies’, Pop!”

Blumenfeld’s large round face contorted in agony. “Don’t remind me of that _flop_!”

“Told you it stunk, Pop. You shoulda listened to me.” The demon spawn nodded triumphantly.

“Yes, I should.” He looked at us. “If I hadn’t listened to Sidney, I wouldn’t have invested in this show. He thinks the comedian who tells the limericks is a laugh and a half.”

“There once was a girl from Nantucket—“ Sidney recited.

“It is a most amusing revue, Mr. Blumenfeld,” Jeeves said. “I have been enjoying it very much.”

“The second act’s started, we’d best be out there,” said Oofy. He looked from me to Jeeves. “It’ll be a riot!”

Oofy and the Blumenfelds were off to do whatever producers and their spawn do, leaving Jeeves, Sandy, and me. Dropping the dress, I closed the door.  Jeeves had soundlessly moved over to Sandy and took the blackguard’s arm.

“Let _go_ of me!” Sandy cried out.

“I think not, sir.” Jeeves bent Sandy’s arm behind his back. As angry as I was at the man, I could not help but wince sympathetically as he squirmed. Despite the bland expression, I knew Jeeves was enjoying himself.

“You can’t make me leave town, you great lout,” Sandy said to Jeeves.

Jeeves apparently tightened his hold, because Sandy let out a loud yelp.

“Bertie, make him stop!” Sandy gasped at me.

“Don’t have much sympathy for  you at the m., old thing.” I pretended to examine my fingernails. I heard Sandy yelp again.

But as angry as I was, it was not _preux_ to allow my manservant to manhandle the man at hand. “You can let go of him, Jeeves.”

“You do have a job with the ‘Jill Darling’ company in Northumberland, Mr. Simpson,” said Jeeves. “It’s only one line, but you are certain to do it justice.”

Sandy snatched back his arm, rubbing it with his other hand. “You can force me out of this show, but you can’t force me to leave London, you damn tosser! If that gorilla _touches_ me again, I’m going straight to the police and press charges!”

Jeeves suddenly had that look on his face, the one he’d had when he told Sandy he would regret the day he was born. Rather than cowering, Sandy folded his arms and glared back.

“You can’t do anything to me,” he snarled.

Wordlessly, Jeeves bent over the heavy old oak chair by the dressing table. With a loud _crack_ he broke off one of the chair legs, leaving the chair to tip over on the floor. Holding the chair leg in one large gloved hand, he idly tapped it against his other hand, as one would a bat.

“Don’t!” I yelled.

“I do not intend to strike Mr. Simpson, sir.” He returned his gaze to Sandy. “If I may take the liberty—“

“What are you going to do?” Sandy quavered.

Without taking his eyes off Sandy, Jeeves lifted the chair leg an inch from Sandy’s face, turned it lengthwise, and broke it in half with another loud _crack_.

He then dropped the two pieces on the ground, took out a handkerchief, wiped his gloved hands and stepped back, instantly becoming his usual self.

“It is not my place to say, sir,” Jeeves answered, as if he had not just snapped a thick piece of oak like it was a twig.

“Um, Sandy, I think I hear Northumberland calling,” I said.

“Damn you, Bertie. I’ll be on that train. One line is better than having my neck broken.” He looked at Jeeves and took a step back. “Knowing this one, he’d know how to make it look like an accident.”

“Mr. Simpson, one has friends who will know if you are not on that train tonight, sir,” Jeeves informed him, as if he was offering a cup of tea and a scone.

Jeeves escorted me out of the dressing room. My legs gave out. He steadied me with a hand under my arm.

“Jeeves—my god, man, you are a marvel! I thought for certain the family name was about to be ruined, that photo plastered across the front pages, bringing the police, not to mention aunts!” I stopped. “I say, how did you get in Sandy’s dressing room? Materialization?”

“No, sir. Tonight seemed an excellent opportunity to see this production. Since I knew that you would be here, and that...man...would likely endeavor to get you alone, I felt the best course of action would be to conceal myself in his dressing room. Behind the oriental screen.”

I tottered. “Jeeves, you astound me. Wait, was even _half_ of what you said in there true?”

In the half-light of backstage I could see there was a corner of his lip quirked in self-satisfaction. “The majority, sir. Forgive me, sir, I have taken the liberty of engaging the Pink Slipper in your name for Sunday night. Eric Stanton’s valet is a member of the Junior Ganymede. He put it to Mr. Stanton that were Mr. Stanton to step in for Mr. Simpson, it would be the ‘sort of publicity that cannot be bought’, as he put it. There is a part for...that man...in ‘Jill Darling’. Unfortunately it is a non-speaking part in one scene, as a hotel clerk. The actor that is doubling in seven non-speaking parts was happy to give that one to another actor. A cousin of mine is married to the manager of the Northumberland Gaiety Theater.”

Words failed me. “Jeeves—Words fail me.”

“Indeed, sir.”

Suddenly I remembered. “Oi! We have to appear in public as Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers!”

“I had not foreseen that possibility.” He coughed softly behind his hand.  “May I take in the rest of the revue, sir? I have an excellent seat in the first row of the balcony.”

I waved him away. “Enjoy yourself, Jeeves.”

“Thank you, sir. It might be wise to remove your makeup before you leave the theater, sir.”

He vanished.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Love And Babies" closed after 7 performances on Broadway in 1933.  
> "Jill, Darling" was a musical that closed and toured the provinces.  
> The Northumberland Gaiety Theater was a premiere regional theater.


	11. Beryl's Ridiculous Notion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Beryl gives Bertie a piece of her mind for putting her in charge of Oofy's birthday celebration. And expresses her ridiculous notion that Jeeves is potty for him.

When Jeeves returned after “Node’s Jollities”, I was smoking an annoyed cigarette and trying to plow my way through _Ethan Frome_. One of the other Drones had been forced to read it by his fiancée and couldn’t stop bragging about it. I’d managed most of the story by skipping through it.

As far as I could tell, it was about a married chap, Ethan, who falls for a beazel not his wife. Ethan and Beazel run away. For some reason I missed when I was skipping through the text, they decide to kill themselves by sledding.  Sledding?

“It’s dashed ridiculous, that’s what this is,” I said aloud as Jeeves walked through the door.

“What is ridiculous, sir?”

“Jeeves, have you ever read _Ethan Frome_?”

“Yes, sir. Miss Edith Wharton is a remarkable authoress. She understands much about the human condition.”

“Sledding is a bally stupid way to kill yourself. Why not a gun, so much more efficient. Running your sled into a tree?”

“Ethan and Mattie are revisiting the places they spent their happiest hours, sir.”

I slapped the book shut. “That’s daffy, Jeeves. Why not go to the nearest potting shed and enjoy a few happy hours before Mattie catches the blasted train? How does it end, Jeeves?”

He considered. “The ending is quite tragic, sir. The lovers survive, but Mr. Frome is left with a permanent limp. Mattie has broken her spine and is now a bedridden invalid. Mr. Frome’s wife is left to take care of both of them. The three live in misery, avoided by all others, sir.”

“Good lord! I’m dashed relieved I didn’t finish the thing! No, Jeeves, Bertram Wooster shall keep to light reading from now on.” I watched him shimmer about the room, plumping cushions and whatnot.

“I say, Jeeves, how was the second act?”

“Quite colorful, sir. The circus finale was particularly well executed. Having Mr. Stanton and Miss Plumington descend from the flies on life-sized elephants was an inspired touch.”

“How was Miss Plumington? She enjoys a snootful or three during working hours. Beryl told me they’ve had to strap her to the elephant to keep her from tumbling to the stage.”

“Miss Plumington did seem the worse for drink, sir. She knocked down one of the clowns when she attempted a _jete’_.”

I paused carefully. “Jeeves, er, before that, earlier, in Sandy’s dressing room—“

The enjoyment I had detected on Jeeves’s dial fled as if it had been wiped clean by a cloth. “Yes, sir?”

“I would have put a large bet on Sandy’s life being cut short rather abruptly.”

Before he could answer, the telephone jangled, startling me into dropping _Ethan Frome_. It landed on my foot, causing me to shout a profanity I will not reproduce here. For an instant I thought Edith Wharton was trying for retribution for my criticism of her infernal tome. Jeeves answered it. The telephone, not the spirit of an insulted Edith Wharton.

“Wooster residence. Whom may I say is calling?” His brow furrowed ever so slightly. “Yes, Miss Dixon, Mr. Wooster is in.”

“Beryl? Well, I’m going to give her a piece of my mind!” I took the receiver from my man. He promptly vanished into the nether regions of the flat.

“Beryl, I’m going to give you a piece of my mind!”

“Shut up, Bertie!” The tone of her voice indicated that any giving of p. of m. was to be done by the female half of the sketch. “Do you have any _idea_ what that manservant of yours has done to me?”

“You? I have to pretend to be Ginger Rogers!”

“Pardon me if my heart doesn’t bleed for you, you pillock! Because of your damned Jeeves I have less than _two days_ to pull together a show for that damned Prosser, damn you!”

“Beryl—“

“Shut up! You are just lucky that everyone in this company are such _hams_! Every one of them wants to do a single! Bertie, do you know how long a show would be where everyone does a single?”

“Long?” I gulped.

“Until Judgement Day, that’s how long! I’ve had to convince the specialty acts to let the ensemble strut their stuff. Do you have even the smallest inkling of what Zelda is like when she’s told she won’t be singing Cole Porter? She threw a whiskey bottle at me!”

“Your evening wasn’t a patch on mine!” I replied heatedly. “You didn’t have some bounder smearing you with makeup and then taking incriminating photos! My hair would have turned grey if I wasn’t wearing a blonde wig!”

 “Bertie.” Her tone softened. “About Sandy.”

“I shudder at the mention of his name, dearest Beryl.”

“It’s all my fault. I didn’t know Sandy was such a bastard. He flirted with all the men in the company, I thought he’d be a good playmate for you. I’m so sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about, old thing. That Ronald Colman exterior fooled me as well. I say, the _camera_!”

I could hear her smile. “Would you believe it, both the camera and the film fell into the furnace. I haven’t a notion how that happened.” She laughed. “What happened after we left the dressing room? He was out of the theater like a shot.”

I gave her a _precis_ of the events that transpired _in re_ self, Sandy and Jeeves.

 Beryl gasped. “You’re lucky Jeeves didn’t kill Sandy.”

“Come now, Beryl, Jeeves doesn’t kill people. It isn’t the done thing.”

“Oh? Bertie, he would gladly murder anyone who threatened a hair on your noggin. He’s in love with you.”

I stared at the receiver for a moment.

“What did you say?”

“Jeeves is head over heels for you, you berk! Didn’t you see the way he looked at Sandy when you were dancing together? I only started dancing with Jeeves so he didn’t charge the stage and rip Sandy apart with his bare hands. How can you be such a dunce?”

“I say, I—“

“Mr. Prosser has let me take both shows off tomorrow so that I can rehearse everybody. I expect you and Jeeves at the rehearsal studio at 9 pm. The rest of the acts won’t need much rehearsing, but you two are going to need a lot of work.”

“9 pm? That’s past the dinner hour!”

“For both of us, you naff.” She gave me the address, called me a few more names, and rang off.

“Jeeves!” I called. When he shimmered in, I looked at him. There was no pottiness about him that the keen Wooster eye could discern. He was plain, ordinary Jeeves. Not that anything is ordinary about Jeeves, but what I mean to say is, there was no love light softly shining from his eyes. The light of shining intelligence, as always, but of tender pash, not a bit.

“Do you require anything, sir?”

“We’re are marching to our doom at 9 pm, Jeeves.”

“Sir?”

“We are to don the mantle of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers,” I gave a manly whimper. “Why can’t I be Fred Astaire?”

“I am sorry that you have to be Ginger Rogers, sir. It discomfits me to perform a dance that Fred Astaire has so indelibly made his own.”

“Pshaw!” I pshaw’d. “Watching you waltz with—you know who—you were the picture of Terpsichore at his or her best!” Events of the evening caught up with me all of a sudden, and I gave a jaw-cracking yawn.

“Do you require anything further, sir?”

“What? No, no, off you go, Jeeves, I shall see myself to bed.”

“Good night, sir.”

“Good night, Jeeves.”

I sat, brooding heftily. Jeeves did not share my, er, interest in frolicking with members of both sexes. He didn’t fancy frolicking with anyone, and most definitely was not desirous of frolicking with one Bertie Wooster. In fact, it was next to impossible to imagine Jeeves frolicking at all. As I have stated, Jeeves is not warm and cuddly. He was above enjoying the embraces, cries of passion and delightful crudities of sexual congress.

Nope. No love light whatsoever. Wherever did Beryl get such ludicrous notions?  



	12. Backwards And In High Heels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bertie must be Ginger Rogers.
> 
>  
> 
> Comment away! I always answer!

Over breakfast the next morning, I continued to brood over what Beryl had claimed about Jeeves. Potty? Over me? It was ridiculous. Hadn’t he forsworn the most enjoyable activities to be found on God’s green earth—or rather, God’s dark bedrooms—because a woman broke his heart? As I had the night before, I watched him like the proverbial hawk as he shimmered about the bedroom, choosing the Wooster outfit. He had been sensationally protective last night at the Princess. And before that, when he as good as threatened bodily harm to Sandy lest he leave go of my carcass in the more than immediate future. Did that count as potty-ness? Or did it count as a mother tiger defending her cub? Or, for that matter, a murderous swan defending her swanling? It was depressing to contemplate myself as a baby swan rather than as a...actually, it was also rather depressing to contemplate myself as a damsel in distress. Bertram is many things, but a damsel he is not, particularly from the navel downwards.

“Sir?”

His voice broke in on my thoughts. Startled, I did my best not to drop a toast triangle into the bed. “Jeeves?”

“Are you in need of anything, sir?”

“No.”

“You seem as if you were about to request something, sir.”

I felt my cheeks growing a tad temperate. “What? No! Merely admiring your consummate grace—I mean, the way you move—oh, dash it, how good you are at your job.” I shoved the toast into my mouth lest I keep babbling. I chewed, pointing to my mouth and eagerly nodding to indicate that this toast triangle was one of the finest toast triangles I had ever s. into my m.

“Er, Jeeves,” I said, swallowing at the same time, which was not the wisest course of action. My manservant waited respectfully while the young master coughed into his napkin. “I say, Jeeves.” I cleared my throat. “Jeeves, about last night.”

“Yes, sir.” I saw a slight ossification about his dial.

“That display was quite—impressive. I say, you wouldn’t have struck him if I hadn’t told you not to? You don’t seem the sort to go for the old gangster muscle, Jeeves, but the way you advanced on Sandy put me in mind of Mr. James Cagney, if he was standing on Edward G. Robinson’s shoulders. The only thing lacking was pushing a grapefruit in his face. But you didn’t have a grapefruit to hand, did you?

“No, sir.”

“Too bad, Jeeves. I should have liked to see that.”

“I am sorry that a grapefruit was not to be found, sir.” He dropped his gaze to the Aubusson. “Forgive me, sir. It shall not happen again.”

“See that it doesn’t. We can’t have you assassinating anyone.”

“No, sir.”

“You are a paragon of men, Jeeves, but you must stay your hand before you think of slaughtering someone.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You wouldn’t be able to work for me because you’d be wearing prison stripes, and we can’t have that, eh, what?”

“No, sir. I have set out the blue pinstripe.”

I unshipped a sigh, dreading the day ahead. “Lay out my dancing shoes, Jeeves. I have to be Ginger Rogers.”

 

We arrived at the appointed time at the rehearsal studio near Waterloo Station. Two men passed us. One of them was splattered with what looked to be custard.

“I _told_ you that gag wouldn’t work,” Mr. Custard groused to Mr. Clean Face.

“You’re the one that screamed,” Mr. Clean Face returned.

“The edge of the damn pie plate hit me in the eye!” said Mr. Custard. The rest of their conversation was lost to posterity as they made their way to the gents.

The rehearsal studio was hot. The windows were damp from the heat and the room smelled unpleasantly of honest toil. Mirrors lined one wall, with one of those ballet bar thingies on the other side. Beryl awaited us. Her brown hair was tied back with a striped scarf, and she wore a white cotton blouse and nautical trousers. A pity, one couldn’t see her bally marvelous legs. Tom the piano player smoked a cigarette by the tall windows. She sat wearily on a chair.

“What ho, Beryl! How goes the enterprise?” I said cheerfully.

Her gaze could cut glass. “Delightful. I’ve up since dawn putting this thing together.  You’re the closing act for the first half.” She stepped back. “Take off your coats and waistcoats. This is hot work. I can’t take this out on anyone else, so I’m taking it out on _you_.”

Oh, dear, that did not sound promising. We did as she bid. Jeeves took our togs, carefully folded them and placed them on a chair, first wiping the seat with his handkerchief. There was nowhere to hang them. I imagine this insulted his finer feelings.

“Jeeves, relax!”

“I am relaxed, Miss Beryl.” Jeeves was not relaxed. Others could not read my man, but I could tell by the tiny twitch in his cheek that he was a tad tense. I was more than a tad tense. I was, I am hesitant to admit, absolutely jittery.

The sight of Jeeves in white shirtsleeves and black braces was nothing to sneeze at. His musculature made it clear why he’d had no trouble breaking that chair leg. I only had to worry that he wouldn’t break me.

“Here, Bertie, put this on.” Beryl held up a long pink skirt with thick ruffles all around the bottom. “For now, you can leave your trousers on, but you’ll be dancing in a skirt like this so you have to get used to it.” She paused. “Both of you can dance. You’re no Astaire and Rogers, but you’ll do.  We’ve all seen the picture. I’ve simplified the dance because heaven knows, it’s too difficult for you. I’ll not have you stumbling around like great horses.”

I pulled the skirt over my head. The Wooster who was at Crecy was never faced with putting on a dress and dancing before a theatrical troupe. Still, I rubbed my hands together and pretended a hail-fellow-well-met.

“What a lark,” I said, my hail-fellow-well-met not so hail.

“All right, gentlemen, you know what you have to do.” Beryl said. “Sing and dance as if you are Fred and Ginger.”

“Yes, Miss Beryl.”

Beryl came up close to us. “Jeeves sings the song, and then you dance. Bertie, you stand in front of Jeeves.”

"It might be better if Mr. Wooster sang the song. His voice is quite like Fred Astaire's."

"No getting out of it, Jeeves. Gentlemen, take your places."

I’d never had a chance to think about it, but Jeeves is _tall_. I’m tall, but Jeeves is _tall._ Imposing, if you know what I mean. He looms, to put it another way.

There was an evil glint in the woman's eye. “Bertie, you’re fighting your attraction to him. You’re pretending to be indifferent. Jeeves, you’re madly in love. You want to win Bertie over. Think you can do that? Let’s try it. Tom?”

“Yeah.” Tom slid onto the piano bench and started playing. Jeeves stood, hands awkwardly at his sides.

“Jeeves, you look like a store dummy. Put your hand on your heart.”

He put his hand on his heart. I ducked my head and looked away, playing the bashful young thing as delineated by Miss Rogers.

 _Like the beat, beat, beat of the tom tom_  
_When the jungle shadows fall_  
_Like the tick, tick, tock of the stately clock_  
_As it stands against the wall_

 Blimey! Jeeves had a creamy dark baritone that absolutely rippled o’er Bertram. He looked over my head at somewhere in the middle distance.

 “Bertie, turn and walk away from him, head held high.  Jeeves, follow Bertie, both of you follow the rhythm of the song.” She clapped her hands. "And one and two and one two two and one and two--"

Jeeves glided as he always does, but I’m afraid I clumped a tad. The skirt swished uncomfortably. Beryl stopped us and made us do it again. She gave Jeeves the signal to start singing again.

  
_Like the drip, drip drip of the rain drops_  
_When the summer showers through_  
_A voice within me keeps repeating_  
_You, you, you—“_

 “Stop!  Jeeves, put some pepper into it! Okay, let’s take it again.”

“What were we doing wrong?” I asked. “I was fighting my attraction to him like billy-o.”

 “Jeeves, you need to sing to Bertie. Bertie, stop blushing. Maybe it would be better if you looked at the floor. No, not like that with your mouth hanging open! You’re a shy maiden.” Beryl tapped her chin with her finger, thinking. She brightened. “I’ve got it. Jeeves, you’re _Fred_. Bertie, you’re _Ginger_.”

“Ginger? Hang on, woman—“

“PRETEND! Do you want to do this or don’t you?”

“I say, it’s not as if I have a choice, old girl.”

We performed the verse three more times before Beryl was satisfied. She was a little slave-driver, she was!

In the mirror we looked absolutely absurd, two men clumping about, one of them wearing a long pink skirt with ruffles around the bottom. I did my best not to look mirror-ward.

“Fred, we’ll go to the chorus. Remember, put some oomph into it! You’re _in love_ with Ginger.”

“Yes, Miss Beryl.” Jeeves was impassive as ever, but one eyebrow twitched.

 _Night and day you are the one_  
_Only you beneath the moon or under the sun_  
_Whether near to me or far it's no matter darling_  
_Where you are_  
_I think of you, night and day—_

 _Day and night_  
_Why is it so that this longing for you_  
_Follows where ever I go?_  
_In the roaring traffic's boom, in the silence of my lonely room_ _I think of you_  
_Day and night, night and day!_

Oh, my. I mean to say, oh my! I was so transfixed by Jeeves’s singing that I quite forgot where I was.

“Ginger!”

I snapped out of my coma. “I’m ever so sorry, Beryl, I do love this song so,” I spluttered.

“Yeah,” she drawled. “Tom, are you ready?”

“More than they are,” he snickered.

“I say!” I said, and I meant it to sting.

“I’m going to choreograph the dance. Jeeves, you take Bertie’s right hand and put your arm at his waist. Bertie, remember, _you_ follow _Jeeves_.” She turned to Tom. "Hit it." She clapped her hands to the beat. "And _one_ and _two_ and _one_ two two--"

And choreograph it she did! It might have been simplified, but it was still bloody hard. We fox-trotted around the rehearsal hall, Tom keeping up a peppy rhythm. Wooster did his best. After all, how many times—countless, I’d say—had he cleared the floor at nightclubs, causing the crowd to gasp in admiration and envy? But he hadn’t been wearing a bloody long pink skirt with ruffles!

We parted and faced each other, I had to go behind him, all the time staying with the bally rhythm of the song, _and_ try to look graceful! Now, young Wooster has prided himself on his grace. Far and wide it has been proclaimed, “Bertie Wooster’s grace is renowned!” But it seems said grace had packed its suitcase and fled to parts unknown.

Jeeves, on the other hand, was not only graceful but quite first-rate at this dancing wheeze. Not Fred Astaire, of course, because nobody is Fred Astaire. I mean, Fred Astaire is Fred Astaire, or his pictures wouldn’t be worth attending.

We danced across the rehearsal room, the young master dancing backwards. I stumbled and almost fell.

How did Ginger Rogers manage this?  “How did Ginger Rogers manage this?” I gasped.

“Backwards and in high heels.”

“High heels?”

Beryl sighed in exasperation. “Of course not, we don’t want you to kill yourself in front of the audience. You’ll be wearing one of the male dancer’s slippers. If you’re not going to make a complete fool of yourself, you need to learn how to do this.  Let’s do it again. Tom?”

We did it again. Dammit, I kept losing my balance!  Finally, Beryl stood behind me and put her hands on my hips.

“Ginger, I’m going to dance _with_ you until you get this, do you understand me?”

Jeeves gave an almost imperceptible frown. “Miss Beryl, do you think that is a good idea?”

“I’m the professional here, Fred. If Ginger doesn’t want to break her ankle, she must do what she’s told!”

“Very good, miss.”

“She?” I squawked.

“She!” Beryl snapped.

Thank heaven the beazel had agreed that we did not have a tender pash for each other! Not when she was ordering me about like a petite brown-haired master sergeant.

“From the chorus, Tom.”

“Ginger’s pretty big, Beryl. If she falls, she falls on you,” Tom said with a snicker.

I wished Tom dead.

The damn chorus struck up _again._ Beryl held my hips as we danced. It was dashed odd, as if Jeeves was a train and he was steering a Beryl and Bertie caboose. Still, with Beryl holding me, I was able to dance backwards without fear of breaking the Wooster neck.

The part that kept distracting me was when Jeeves brought me back from a twirl and I thumped into his broad barrel chest. His face remained made of stone. But his body was very large and solid, and I confess all sorts of naughty thoughts raced in my head as we twirled, swirled, broke apart, and came back together. I stumbled and forgot the steps, but Jeeves danced as if to the manor born. Once Beryl did not have to hang on me to keep me from dashing my brains out on the rehearsal studio floor, I deliberately pressed my lower anatomy into his at a few opportune moments. I was met with an utter lack of response, both in face and body.

But when he dipped me at the end, he did not look into my eyes. Oh, no, Jeeves evidently did not wish to experience that again, damn it all.

We rehearsed for hours, until I was exhausted and drenched in perspiration. Even Jeeves, to my amazement, had small damp patches under his arms! I hadn’t thought he was capable of sweating. I mean to say, who knew a godlike figure could perspire? It almost, but not quite, brought him down to human level.

I defy anyone, male, female, or other, to spend hours dancing with Jeeves, listening him sing a tender love song, and not end up in a lather of lust. His large hands guided me, his legs nimble, his hair becoming slightly disarranged...naughty thoughts continued to rampage in my brain as I watched Jeeves take a drink of water.  

The door opened, and an unassuming chap slouched in. Beryl jumped her, her face brighter than newly polished silver in the sun. “Gerald!”

“Sweetness!” The chap threw his arms around Beryl and they proceeded to smooch like Clark Gable and Jean Harlow.

 _This_ was Gerald? This shortish fellow with thinning brown hair and the general appearance of a small farm animal? This was Gerald, the man who’d stolen Beryl’s heart? A twinge of jealousy twinged the heart. Well, kick me hard and call me Cyril! I had not measured up to _Gerald_?

“Noel hasn’t been working you too hard, has he, darling?”

“He let us go for the night,” Gerald said, beaming back. Really, it was revolting, the way those two beamed at each other. He turned down the wattage of his beam and turned to me. “Noel Coward, you know.”

“So Beryl informed me,” I said drily.

He turned back to Beryl and turned up the wattage again.” I thought we could go for a late supper.”

Beryl brought her small hand to her cheek. “Where are my manners? Bertie Wooster, this is Gerald Espenson. And this is Jeeves.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” said Gerald, pumping my hand. He looked at Jeeves. “So, you’re the valet who got Beryl into this pickle, eh?”

“Yes, sir,” Jeeves replied coolly.

 “We’re all done, chaps!” Beryl announced.

With a gasp of relief, I pulled off the damned pink skirt. Beryl put her hands on her hips. “Be at the Pink Slipper at five thirty tomorrow afternoon and we’ll run through it again.”

“Again?” I gasped. “You want us to do all that again? Are you _insane_?”

Beryl planted herself in front of me. “Ginger Rogers, you _will_ dance like you have never danced tomorrow. Jeeves saved your life. You owe it to him and everybody else to give a professional performance. I’ve rehearsed for twenty-four hours straight and I never complained. Before tomorrow night,  you have to shave your chest and your underarms.”

“I say!”

“Ginger Rogers does not have a hairy chest, Bertie.”

"Neither do I."

"Hairier than Ginger's. I've seen it. Shave!"

“The blasted show must go on?” I moaned.

“The blasted show must go on!”

 

 

Jimmy Cagney giving Mae Clarke the grapefruit in the face.


	13. Did Cleopatra Have This Much Trouble?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bertie does his damnedest to make Jeeves crack.
> 
> Many, many thanks to Wotwotleigh for turning me on to "Ain't No Sweet Man Worth The Salt Of My Tears".
> 
> Please comment! It turns me into a typing machine!

“Good morning, sir.” Jeeves drew open the curtains. The Darjeeling had been placed near to hand. I reached for it, grateful for its healing qualities. However, when my arm and back stretched, they didn’t just protest, they bally well marched down the street waving signs and demanding someone’s head. Preferably Beryl’s.

“Oh, gaaawwwd—“

“Are you all right, sir?”

“Bloody hell!”

“Sir?”

“Do you suppose Ginger Rogers hurts like this?”

“I doubt it, sir.” He gave me a sympathetic look, by which I mean his eyes widened ever so slightly. “I shall draw a hot bath with salts in it.”

“Put out my shaving things. I must rid myself of my body hair.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And get me two aspirin tablets while you’re at it. No, make that three.”

As he went to the bath chamber, I was pleased to note that his shimmer had less shimmy than usual. Doubtless I would not be the only occupant of the flat ingesting aspirin tablets.

 

I sank down into the hot water, aching limbs phoning the complaint department. I was too sore to play with my rubber duck. Jeeves had laid out my shaving things on the seat next to the tub.  How to go about this shaving business?  I had only ever shaved the dial; now I had to shave almost the whole clock. I put some water in the shaving cup and mixed up the shaving cream.

Shaving my chest was the work of a moment. I brushed on the shaving cream. I have regrettably little chest hair. A few swipes with the old straight razor and I was as bare as a babe.

Next, the Wooster underarms. I started with the left. It tickled most awfully when I applied the shaving lather. Nonetheless, I took up the razor and started.

“AUHAAAHAAHAA!”

It _tickled_! So much so my arm jerked and the razor went flying across the bathroom, landing with a _clink_ next to the _lieux d'aisances._

“Jeeves!”

“Yes, sir?” Jeeves said from the other side of the door.

“It is time for all good men to come to the aid of party?”

Jeeves floated (a little stiffly) into the bathroom. He stood over me, radiating the feudal spirit. “Yes, sir?”

“Fetch my razor. It’s on the floor over there.”

Jeeves fetched said razor, rinsed it under the hot tap, and handed it back to me. I again attempted to swipe my armpit. “EEEYAHAA!” The razor went flying again.

“Is there a problem?”

“I’ll say! I’m too bloody ticklish to shave my own underarms!” It was then that inspiration struck. I cast an appealing look upwards. “I hate to ask this, Jeeves, but could you shave me?”

It occurred to me that this was a sterling opportunity to observe if the fabled Jeevesian _sangfroid_ would crack. A naked, beseeching Wooster, how could he resist, if only because his being my valet made him subject to my demands? Aiming to be seductive, I lifted my arm, draping my forearm and hand loosely on my head. Unfortunately the seductive effect was rather ruined by my back slipping against the porcelain and splashing under the water. I rose, spat out soap suds, and assumed the position more carefully.

“Very good, sir,” he responded coolly. He sat on the seat that had previously held my shaving things. He brushed on the shaving cream, causing me to give a girlish giggle. Jeeves proceeded to shave me. It didn’t tickle under his expert hands. In fact, it felt quite nice, smooth and even. To my horror, my own _sangfroid_ started to crack. To be more accurate, the portion of my anatomy that I rarely write about was taking a definite interest in the proceedings. I crossed my legs. Dashed hard to hide something like one’s _sangfroid_ cracking when one has no clothes on. Perhaps this seductive bath lounging wheeze hadn’t been such an intelligent idea after all.

“Er, Jeeves, you don’t have to do the other one, I can manage.”

“It will go faster if I do it, sir.” He applied shaving cream to my other underarm, rinsed his hand off by swishing it in the bath water (alarmingly close to my—uh—you know) and took up the razor. I snuck a glance at Jeeves’s face. No reaction, blast it! None at all! He might as well have been shining shoes! Damn, was I no more alluring than a pair of wingtips? Yes, it was true he had seen me in all my glory hundreds of times before. But if Jeeves was potty about me, why wasn’t my manly magnetism having an effect? Any number of women of my acquaintance have tried to drag me to the altar, and one assumes that it’s somewhat due to said manly magnetism.

“Will that be all, sir?” Jeeves rose and rinsed the razor off under the tap again.

“Ah.” I kept my legs crossed and thought about dead cats. Tennis shoes with white tie. Tea shop steak and kidney pie. Anything to put my todger in a more restful position.

“If you will get out of the tub, I will clean it and run you another bath.”

“Hand me a towel, old thing. Hand me two towels.”

“Very good, sir.” Stone-faced, he handed me a warm towel. Keeping my back to him, I wrapped the towel around the offending lower torso and escaped into the bedroom.

 

I kept my distance from Jeeves the rest of the day. I went out to lunch and spent the afternoon at the Drones. I restricted myself to one w. and s., no s. My coordination had to be at its best tonight. Large moths had taken residence in my stomach. Dancing in front of a crowd, in a dress—how could I do it? I would slip, fall down crash into the piano, all of the usual things that happened whenever I attempted a public performance of any kind.

I could take a cab to a seedy part of town. When found, claim amnesia.

I could pretend to have broken my leg. Wear a fake cast.

I could pretend Aunt Dahlia summoned me urgently and it was only an oversight that I had not taken Jeeves.

Then I thought about Beryl. Jeeves. Oofy. This went against the Code of the Woosters in every conceivable fashion, and some fashions that hadn’t been conceived yet. I would have to face the music, in both the figurative and literal senses. My underarms itched.

All young Wooster could do was send a prayer that the Pink Slipper would burn to the ground between now and 8:30.

 

Jeeves and self arrived at the Pink Slipper at exactly 5:30. The club was packed to the eyeballs with thespians. The abominable Tom, dressed in evening clothes, sat at the piano, puffing a bored cigarette.

“All right, girls, let’s take it again!” Beryl demanded. She again had the striped scarf on her head, but it was over a pin-curl set. A matching scarf was twisted around her torso to make a halter. She looked adorable. Gerald was a lucky cove. A young blond chappie stood next to her, holding a clipboard.

Six men, their arms around each other’s shoulders, proceeded to sing.

 _Shaking like a leaf on a tree_  
_That's coming loose from the stem_  
_Shaking like a leaf on a tree_  
_Because I'm coming loose from my man_

 _I'm like a weeping willow_  
_Weeping on my pillow_  
_For years & years_  
_There ain't no sweet man_  
_That's worth the salt of my tears_

 _So, broken-hearted sisters_  
_Aggravating misters_  
_Lend me your ears_  
_There ain't no sweet man_  
_That's worth the salt of my tears_

They broke into a sprightly dance that seemed a bit _louche_ to me. Eyes rolling, hips wiggling a tad too much, if you take my meaning.

“I’ll be surprised if they don’t have green carnations in their boutonnières tonight, Jeeves.”

“Indeed, sir.”

“Here, I think they’re wearing eyelash black and lip rouge!”

“So they are, sir.”

“Are they going to be Ginger Rogers as well? If they are, we can leg it for home.”

“I believe that their musical number is intended to be...” he paused. “Satirical.”

“Satirical? Of what?”

Jeeves watched the men dance. They had paired off and performing some dashed athletic feats, leaping over each and so forth.

“Society’s prevailing attitudes toward inverts, sir. It might be considered an act of rebellion.”

“A musical number an act of rebellion? Don’t be daft, Jeeves. Is Irving Berlin’s ‘Always’ considered an act of sedition? Is Hoagy Carmichael’s ‘Stardust’ a cry for the revolution?”

“No, sir.”

Waiters were setting clean white tablecloths on the tables; sweeping the floor, polishing the surface of the huge black bar and the mirror behind it. With all of the lights on, it looked less like a glamorous nightclub than a large, empty black box dotted with tables on different levels. Various members of the “Node’s Jollities” company sat at the empty tables. Some read newspapers, some sipped coffee, some stood to one side, practicing dance routines or talking softly to themselves. Presumably reciting song lyrics or sketches.

The men finished their song and dance and scattered to parts unknown. Beryl wandered over to the piano, picked up her little enamel cigarette case and took a cigarette. She leaned over and Tom lit it. She took a few puffs as though they were oxygen.

“Mr. Jeeves and Mr. Wooster are here,” said the chappie with the clipboard. “Do you want to run through their routine next, or yours?”

“Thanks, Ned. Fred and Ginger are up next. You two! Get over here!”

“I say, Beryl, that’s no way to speak to a gentleman!”

She put her hands on her hips. “Ginger, because of Fred there, I’ve been working since yesterday morning to pull this hay ride together. You’re up next. Fred, I need to talk to Ginger.”

“Very good, miss.”

Beryl steered me to the edge of the bandstand. Each instrument stand had PS embroidered in large black script.

“So, how’s it going with tall, dark and silent?”

I threw up my hands in an attitude of defeat. “It goeth nowhere, young Beryl. I even lay seductively in my bath _ala_ Claudette Colbert in her immortal portrayal of Cleopatra and let him shave my underarms. Mickey Mouse would have gotten more of a rise out of him than I did. It’s a bust, Beryl. He remains unmoved. In the meantime, yours truly is going off his onion with desire. And again I lay the fault at your feet. If it were not for spending hours in closest physical proximity I should be happily courting a handsome young man like the sweet young thing with the clipboard over there.”

“Hate to burst your bubble, Bertie, but Ned only likes girls.” She gave me a wink, green eyes sparkling. “But I’ve had a pipterino of a notion, Bertie. This’ll make him crack. Stay there.”

She returned, carrying the dreaded pink skirt and a pair of white dancing slippers. “Okay, Ginger, let’s get you ready to strut your stuff.  Shoes, socks, trousers, off!” Beryl thrust out the hated garment. “Come on, we haven’t all night.”

“White slippers, woman? A Wooster does not wear slippers, I’ll have you know!”

“If a Wooster won’t wear slippers, he will wear high heels. The female impersonators down at the Ripe Cherry would be _more_ than happy to lend them to me.” Her pink lips curled in a triumphant smile.

“Dammit!” I grabbed the skirt, pulled it on, then reached under and undid my trousers. I divested myself of said trousers, and cursing the day I ever met Beryl Dixon, I took off my shoes and tan silk socks. I then forced my feet into the slippers. They had thin leather soles, much lighter than my bespoke Lobb wingtips. Lest you think me brazen for disrobing in public—well, I am an old hand at this showbusiness business. Anything goes backstage, what? It already had in the past few days!

“Bertram Wooster, you have not shaved!”

“Didn’t I just finish telling you the tragic tale of Jeeves and the young master’s underarms?”

“I meant your legs, Bertie!” She shook her head. “We’ll worry about it later. I’m too busy. The seamstress will fit you and Jeeves after we’re finished. Now wait ‘til you see what I came up with!”

She took my hand and led me back to where Jeeves waited courteously.  He had removed his jacket and waistcoat. Once again I was treated to the site of Jeeves in shirtsleeves and braces. What I was not treated to was Jeeves wearing a friendly expression. In fact, if you put his head in a bucket of water, you would have ice in no time.

Beryl gave me another wink.

“I’ve been thinking over the finish of the dance:” she said. “It’s nice enough, but it doesn’t have pizzazz.”

“There’s plenty of pizzazz,” I corrected her. “Bertram Wooster as Ginger Rogers is the very definition of pizzazz.”

She rolled her eyes. “Ginger and Fred need a bigger finish. Not just a twirl and a dip. You’re going to do a lift into the twirl and dip.”

“What’s a lift?” I asked.

“Fred will lift you up, spin you around eight times, lower you to the ground, swing you into a twirl, and into the dip. Now _that_ has pizzazz!”

Even Jeeves seemed a trifled perturbed.

“Are you crackers, Beryl?  You expect us to do that _tonight_?”

“I expect you to do it, Ginger, and do it beautifully!  We’re going to walk through it.  Fred, twirl Ginger out, then back.”

Jeeves did as he was bid. I only speak God’s truth when I say my twirl could out-twirl common chorus girl at this juncture. I felt an ever-so-subtle jolt when I took Jeeves’s hand.

“When Ginger comes to you, Fred, pull her toward you, put your feet together and bend slightly so your hip is under her. Ginger, hop up onto Fred’s hip. Fred, you hold her around her waist to support her and keep your other hands up together and out. Ginger, you’ll put your arm across Fred’s shoulder to help him hold your weight. Pull your legs up and keep ’em that way. Then you’ll turn in a full circle eight times. Then into the final twirl and dip. All right?”

“Er, what?” I asked. “Did you understand that, Fred—er, Jeeves?”

“Yes, sir. It is a simple equitable distribution of weight and motion.”

“That weight and motion is going to have me crashing across the stage!”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Beryl exclaimed. “Here, Fred, do it with me and we’ll show the poor sap how easy it is. And—step out! Pull back! Bend!” She hopped up on Jeeves’s hip but slid off. “Fred, you have to grab me around the waist or I’ll fall off.  Let’s try it again.”

I was aware of members of the company scattered around the room watching us.

“Yes, Miss Beryl,” Jeeves said. Would you believe it, Jeeves looked...well, I couldn’t put my finger on it at first...he looked flustered! There was a tiny edge of pink on each ear!

“Step out—pull back—bend—hop—arm around my waist—very good! Stop! Don’t drop me!” She hung in the air, Jeeves’s arm around her. “Do you see how I have my legs, Ginger? Bent up toward my hips? If you let them drag, you’ll trip the both of you up. All right, Fred, let’s try turning eight times. Not too fast. And one! And two! And three! And four! And six! And seven! And eight!” They stopped and Beryl slid off of Jeeves’s hip. “Fred, that was perfect!”

“Thank you, Miss Dixon.” Jeeves gave a small bow.

 “All right, Bertie, it’s your turn in the barrel.”

“I BEG your pardon?”

“Switch places.” Beryl pulled me to my feet and took my chair. She took off her black dancing shoe and rubbed her foot.

“I say, I’m a damn sight bigger than you, old thing.”

“That’s why they call it _rehearsal_ , you idiot. Snap to it.”

“Well, what say we lift, Fred, what? What?” I tried for a light laugh that dropped to the floor, rolled over and died. Jeeves’s lips set in a firm line.

“Very good, sir.”

With Beryl counting off the steps, we stepped back, he pulled me in, and I hopped up. Jeeves’s arm came around my waist, I clawed at his shoulder but did not gain a purchase. I slid off and hit the floor in a tangle of legs and pink ruffles. There were snickers from the members of the company.

“Ginger!”

“I’m sorry!” I untangled myself from the devil’s pink fabric and stood up. “The bally skirt is slippery!”

Beryl sighed. “Let’s try it again. Fred, grip her tighter. Ginger, remember to drape your arm over Fred’s shoulders and hold on, and for pity’s sake, don’t fall off again!

“I didn’t _mean_ —“

“From the top!” she ordered. “Step out—pull back—bend— _hop_ —!” The blighted female continued to bark commands that we followed to the best of our ability. I stayed aloft this time round. It was not bad for a first time. Jeeves’s strong, muscled arm held me as easily as he held a tea tray, if a tea tray squirmed and slipped a tad.

It was better the second time. Save for my being so dizzy the nightclub was going in circles. I had heard once that the way to prevent it was to fix my gaze in one place when we twirled. But young Bertram kept forgetting and the room went around in a blur. When Master Sergeant Beryl called for a cigarette break, I staggered off and sat heavily on one of the seats on the bandstand.

“You two are coming along. You might not even embarrass yourself tonight.”

“Thank you, Miss Beryl,” Jeeves said. There was a slight thingummy in his voice. If I didn’t know better, Jeeves would have seemed dis—distraught? Disemboweled? Dis—I’ll get it eventually. Not his usual sunny self. I smoked a slightly befuddled cigarette and watched him like the proverbial hawk. When he glanced my way, I stared at the nightclub ceiling, looking as innocent as a newborn babe. It felt like it had only been a minute when I heard Beryl’s voice.

“All right, Fred and Ginger, let’s do it again. This time with music. Tom?”

Tom sat at the bar, helping himself to a free whiskey in the absence of a bartender. He tossed it back and ankled over to the piano.

The piano struck up. We took our places and stepped out, stepped back, up on Jeeves’s hip, his arm around my waist, spin eight times, down, twirl and dip.

There was a scattered round of applause. It was most heartening.

“Again!”

“I’m sorry, Beryl, dear, but the old head is spinning,” I confessed.

“Ginger, don’t you know to keep your eyes to focus on one thing during the turns?”

“I don’t seem to be able to do it,” I confessed.

“Sir, if it would help, you might wish to focus on me rather than the room around us.” I know I’ve often described Jeeves having a cough like a sheep on a distant hillside. He didn’t sound like a sheep, but he sounded, well, sheepish. Not that anyone else would be able to tell. But his voice was minutely less sure of itself than usual.

“Good idea, Fred,” Beryl exclaimed. Did she just give me a wink? “Again!”

By the next go-round I was actually enjoying myself. As in, enjoying myself _plenty._ I kept my arm draped over his broad shoulders. His torso was large and the way it moved under his crisp white shirt was doing things to me.  Jeeves’s smell was delicious. He was warm and flushed from our exertions. The naughty thoughts were coming back. As we twirled, lifted and spun, I couldn’t help burying my face in his neck during the turns. It took everything I had not to kiss him. But it would hardly be the chivalrous thing, taking advantage of my man. Particularly taking advantage of my man in front of others.

However, around the fifteenth or hundredth time we’d done the finish, my head next to his as he spun us, I blurted out (if one can blurt in a whisper, which is what I think describes what I did), “I love doing this.”

“Indeed, sir,” came the warm, dark reply. Abruptly he stopped dancing and stiffened, causing me to drop with a thud to the floor. My fundament was going to have quite a bruise.

“Fred!” Beryl exclaimed. “What’s wrong?”

Jeeves’s face was red. Actually _red!_

It was up to young Wooster to save my man from humiliation. “Er, ah,” I gargled. “I, uh, _belched_ in his ear.”

Beryl and the folks nearby started laughing. “What a pro!” one of the male dancers said.

“I’m sorry, Bertie—Ginger—it’s hard to imagine the real Ginger belching at Fred!” Beryl said between laughs. I felt a return of the wish that the Pink Slipper would burn to the ground.

“Okay, gents, we’re going to do the whole number from the top. Fred, Ginger, take your places!”

We launched into our routine. By now we could do it quite smoothly, aside from the occasional stumble by yours truly. There was again a light scattering of applause. This bucked up young Wooster and gave him the strength to fight on. We were going to knock Oofy’s socks off if it killed me in the process.

After what seemed like days, the dance was to Beryl’s satisfaction. “Go have a rest and some dinner,” She smiled at Jeeves. “You see, Jeeves, you’re not a half-bad Fred Astaire!”

“Thank you very much, Miss Beryl.”

“Here, I say, what about me? I’ve been dancing backwards for two days!”

“You’re lovely, Miss Rogers.”

Ned, her assistant chappie, steered us away from the bandstand. “Your costumes need to be fitted. Bertie, you’ll have your own dressing room, at least for the first half. Jeeves, you’ll be in the men’s ensemble dressing room. The seamstress will come around for both of you. Break a leg.”

“I should hope not,” I squawked.

 

 

 Bing Crosby, as part of the Rhythm Boys, singing lead, with Paul Whiteman's orchestra

How to Do A Dance Lift (difference: Jeeves and Bertie swing eight times rather than one)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Ain't No Sweet Man Worth The Salt Of My Tears" was recorded by Paul Whiteman and his Orchestra in 1928.
> 
> Bing Crosby was not truly a solo singer when he was with Whiteman's dance band. He was part of a trio called the Rhythm Boys.
> 
> "Your turn in the barrel" comes from an old nautical joke.  
> A sailor on a Navy ship had been out to sea for weeks. Fed up with the lack of sex, he asked one of his shipmates what he did when the pressure was too much to take.  
> "Well, there's a barrel with a hole in it near the mop storage. When it gets to be too much for us, we use that."  
> So the sailor went over to the barrel and decided to give it a go. Finding it was better than he'd expected, he began using it regularly, and his problems seemed to vanish.  
> After a couple of weeks, his commanding officer said, "You seem to be a lot more relaxed."  
> The sailor, embarrassed to give a straight answer, simply said he'd been getting better rest.  
> "Well good, sailor. You're going to need it," replied the officer. "Today's your turn in the barrel."


	14. Prelude To A Whatsit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the show must go on...or else.
> 
> "When I Take My Sugar To Tea" and "Puttin' On The Ritz" videos are at the bottom of the page!
> 
>  
> 
> Please comment! It means a lot!

“Stand still,” Minnie grumbled. She yanked the white dress tightly around my waist. As wardrobe mistress at the Princess Theater, she was used to commanding the weak. Unpleasantly aunt-like.

“I am standing still,” I retorted. “My tailor can tell you, Bertram Wooster stands like the statue of Nelson at Trafalgar Square when he is being fitted. But my tailor does not yank me from side to side as if I was a ship’s tiller!”

“Your tailor doesn’t have to fit a dress with falsies and a set-in waistline,” she muttered. “If Miss Flambé at the Ripe Cherry hadn’t agree to lend us these things tonight, you’d be dancing in your drawers and vest.”

“They’d be more comfortable than this contraption.”

“There!” Minnie stepped back, putting her hands on her large square hips and surveying the finished effect. We were in the star dressing room of the Pink Slipper. Since the dress was made for a man, it was quite flattering to the slender Wooster figure. A wide row of white ruffles tipped with silver ran across the high front neckline, the back was cut low, with sheer thick net over it, buttoning at the hips. The skirt, as I had feared, had matching white ruffles. However, the sleeves were long and would conceal my arms, which were slightly too athletic for even such a filly as the delectable Miss Rogers. My own soup and fish was hung on the wardrobe rack.

As expertly as Jeeves, if considerably rougher, Minnie divested me of the dress, leaving me indeed in my drawers and vest.

“I’ve gotta alter this a little,” she said. “Be back in two ticks.”

I sagged into the chair by the dressing table. There was a knock on the door and Beryl entered. She looked completely worn out. She tossed some flesh-colored fabric into my lap. “You didn’t shave your legs,” she said curtly. “Tights.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Tights.” The door slapped shut.

Everything went by in a whirl after that. Emma, another girl from the chorus, came and did my wig and makeup. With a practiced hand, she did a better job than that blasted Sandy. After she’d applied the false eyelashes, I batted them at the mirror.

Emma stepped back and surveyed the terrain. “I must say,” she said. “you’re rather pretty, Bertie.”

“Thank you!” I blushed. What with so many people calling me ‘pretty’ in recent days, my head was getting quite turned.

From inside the dressing room I could hear guests arriving, and the dance orchestra started up “Has Anybody Seen My Gal?”.

Minnie returned.  “My god, Bertie, stand still!” Her bulky rough hands hauled up the flesh-colored tights, itching and tickling my legs. She shoved me back into the white dress. She was as bad as Beryl when it came to issuing orders! I hoped Jeeves was having an easier time of it, wherever he was.

“I say, where’s my man?” I asked Minnie.

“In with the men. The only reason you got the star dressing room is because you’re paying for this wingding.”

Paying through the aristocratic Wooster nose. Jeeves had shot the works. The menu went from fruit cocktail to Baked Alaska with every stop in between, including _Galantine truffée_ _a la gelée, timbales de salmon_ , _filet mignon_ and who knew what else. Cocktails and champagne also courtesy of yours truly.

Fittingly, the orchestra was playing “Puttin’ On The Ritz”. Finished, Minnie stepped back to take in the full effect. “You’re not half-bad,” she said, a small smile gracing her face for the first time. “Better looking than Miss Flambé, I’d wager.”

Admiring myself in the mirror, I swished my hips and struck a pose ala blonde bombshell Jean Harlow. “I say!” I say’ed. “I _say_!”

“Bertie, you tear that dress, you have to face Miss Flambé. And you do _not_ want to face Miss Flambé!”

“No fear!”

She clomped out. I blew a kiss at my reflection. I wouldn’t win a seaside Bathing Belles contest, but Bertram was bally adorable. I continued to cock the head, smile shyly, and generally carry on like the most simpering of simpering motion picture starlets. I gave a twirl. To my delight, the skirt flew out, and wrapped around my thighs, the silver in the ruffles twinkling.

After what felt like hours, the show started. I heard the applause as the MC introduced the show. Minnie had left the dressing room door open. How many Drones were out there?

There was a handwritten sheet of the acts taped to the mirror.

**Stage Manager: Ned Glick**

** FIRST HALF **

Master of Ceremonies: Steven Atkinson

Singin’ In The Rain: Steven Atkinson, Ensemble

Pale Hands I Loved Beside The Shalimar: Estelle

The Lavender Lads: Ain’t No Sweet Man

Monologue: Joe Brown

Merry Maidens of Melody: Mavis, Dotty, Beryl

Night and Day: Wooster and Jeeves

I didn’t bother looking at the second half. Steve Atkinson—he was a song and dance man who did a number somewhere in the "Jollities". I was too rattled to remember just what.

Large moths returned to flutter around my insides. What if we botched it? What if Bertie Wooster was (again) the laughingstock of the Drones? For Jeeves’s sake if not my own, I prayed I would not make a bloody fool of myself.

Minnie had warned me that if I sat down in the dress, it would wrinkle inexcusably. I would have to face the wrath of Miss Flambé. In my imagination the female impersonator had taken on the face of Medusa, with flames writhing out of her head instead of snakes. So I stood, heart pounding, listening to the hubbub outside. I had to suppress an urge to climb out onto the fire escape.

The Lavender Lads were singing "Ain't No Sweet Man Worth The Salt of My Tears." The hour of doom approachedeth.

I should have been watching the entertainment. But as my nerves increased, I walked in small circles around the dressing room, walking through the dance in my head. “And one and two and one two two and one—“ I tried to take a few steps, but the presence of a small area rug made me reconsider. If I broke my ankle Beryl would never forgive me. In fact she’d very likely cause me extreme physical harm. In addition to the broken ankle, that is.

“Bertie!” Ned poked his head in.

I gave a startled shriek and nearly fell over.

“You’re after the next act.”

“GACK!”

He ignored my vociferation. I trailed after him like a lost puppy.

The rest of the company also stood in the wings, watching Beryl and two of her compatriots, dressed in minuscule red satin costumes with puffy red bows in their hair, sing “When I Take My Sugar To Tea” in close harmony.

 _When I take my sugar to tea_  
_All the boys are jealous of me_  
_'Cause I never take her where the gang goes_  
_When I take my sugar to tea_

 _I'm a rowdy-dowdy--that's me_  
_She's a high-hat baby--that's she_  
_So I never take her where the gang goes_  
_When I take my sugar to tea_

Beryl really did have bally marvelous legs.

I looked up, to see Ned leading Jeeves toward me. My heart stopped.

Jeeves in full white tie was... _glorious_. Stunning. The man had “It” to spare. His broad shoulders, broad barrel chest and tall solid form were accentuated by the close-fitting black cutaway tailcoat and sleek white waistcoat. It might have been made for him. His legs looked two miles long in the full black trousers. Indeed, Jeeves was _more_ than _much._ I hoped no drool from my watering mouth would fall on my dress.

He nearly bumped into me, staring out at the stage.

“Jeeves! Don’t you recognize me?” I whispered.

He turned, confused.

I had never seen Jeeves absolutely gobsmacked before. But there is a first time for everything, what? Gobsmacked, I tell you! Even the casual observer would have been able to tell! His eyes flicked up and down the shapelier than usual Wooster form, taking in the dress, the makeup, the wig. It was the first time I had ever seen him rendered speechless by something other than a tie with little horseshoes on it.

“Well, Jeeves?” I simpered. “Do I meet the required standard?”

He gulped and answered. “You are...most fetching, sir.”

“Quiet!” Ned whispered.

Jeeves turned his gaze back to the stage, and I witnessed something else for the first time: Jeeves had stage fright.

I almost glanced to the ceiling in case of a rain of frogs.  Jeeves? Stage fright? The man had so much _sangfroid_ you could put the excess in bottles and sell it at Harrod’s. Nevertheless, the skin was pale. The upper lip was bedewed with perspiration. The hands shook! This would not do!

I took the shivering digits in hand. “Jeeves,” I hissed.

“Sir?”

“We can do this. You can do this.” I squeezed his large hand. “Remember Nietzsche, Jeeves! ‘We should consider every day lost on which we have not danced at least once’.”

“I can’t remember the words, sir.” Desperate measures were called for.

“Jeeves, you are a corking singer, a topping dancer, and quite the handsomest man I have ever laid my baby blues on. You cannot let _me_ mess this up. I need _you_ to keep _me_ from making as ass of myself. It would be like--like sending me out onto the street in a bright pink paisley suit! ”

That did it. His back straightened, his breathing slowed.

“Very good, sir,” he said, still holding my hand. He was Jeeves again, thank God.

 _Every Sunday afternoon, we forget about our cares,_  
_Rubbing elbows at the Ritz, with those millionaires._  
_When I take my sugar to tea, I'm as ritzy as I can be,_  
_'Cause I never take her where the gang goes,_  
_When I take my sugar to tea._

 Steven Atkinson, a plump chappy in dinner clothes, led the applause as Beryl and femmes existed. She blew me a kiss as she passed.

“Go get ‘em, boys!"

 

For those of you who enjoyed 'Puttin' On The Ritz' on "Jeeves and Wooster", here's a 1930 rendition sung by Fred Astaire!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Boswell Sisters were a popular close-harmony act in the 20s and 30s. Later, Connie Boswell went out on her own as a singer.
> 
> Fred Astaire was known as much for being a dancer as a singer. This is for a radio audience. A tap board would be placed on the floor, along with a separate mic.
> 
> "Puttin' On The Ritz" was a movie starring Harry Richman and Constance Bennett, released in 1930.


	15. Fred and Ginger And Nietzsche

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bertie and Jeeves trip the light fantastic. And Jeeves loses control.
> 
> PLEASE COMMENT on this chapter! I worked incredibly hard on it and I need to know it works!

There was a drum roll and cymbal crash.

Steve Atkinson stepped downstage and consulted a small card.  “And now, we present two chaps who represent the very spirit of the dance, dancing to Cole Porter’s ‘Night And Day’, Bertram Wooster and Reginald Jeeves!”

Jeeves and self walked out onto the small stage.  There was a roar of laughter and wolf whistles.

“Bertie, you never looked lovelier!” Catsmeat Potter-Pirbright yelled.

“Marry me, darling!” shouted another Drone.

"Pops, he looks like a _girl_ ," came the much-hated squeal of Junior Blumenfeld.

Oofy, from his seat of honor, was laughing so hard his face had turned red. “Splendid! Topping!”

I heard a woman's voice. “Oh, doesn’t Jeeves look _delicious_!”

A murmur rippled through the crowd.

 “Jeeves?” I heard several chaps mutter. “Jeeves?” “He’s going to dance with his valet?” “That’s just not done!” “What is this country coming to?”

“This is going to be fruity!”

I bobbed a small curtsy and rolled my eyes like a born coquette. “What ho, what ho!”

Offstage, Beryl indicated that I was to keep my facial expression serious, and drew her finger slowly along her neck.

The stage went black.  Jeeves and I took our places.

“ _Remember Nietzsche_ ,” I whispered.

The spotlight came on, blindingly white, and suddenly I couldn’t see the audience. Which was fine by this Wooster.

The dance orchestra struck up the music. I was slightly startled. A dance orchestra sounds different than a piano. Fuller, more romantic, one might even say dreamier. Unless it’s rendering ‘Hold That Tiger’. The  audience had simmered down from full boil, but there were titters throughout the club.

_Right! Here we go._

The orchestra played a two-beat foxtrot in D-flat Major, nice and easy. A double bass provided the beat. When Jeeves began to sing, the crowd quieted. I did my best Ginger, feigning indifference but melting as he sang. It wasn’t difficult, I _was_ melting as he sang. As per Beryl’s instructions, he was indeed putting some pepper into it.

 _Like the beat, beat, beat of the tom tom_  
_When the jungle shadows fall_  
_Like the tick, tick, tock of the stately clock_  
_As it stands against the wall--_

I slowly flowed away from him, grateful that I was in white slippers and not high heels. He came around me, looking deep into my baby blues.  I turned my head away, even though I didn’t want to. We swayed together, not touching.

  
_Like the drip, drip drip of the rain drops_  
_When the summer showers through_  
_A voice within me keeps repeating_  
_You, you, you—_

There was a small laugh from the audience. I looked coyly down at the floor, then, as Jeeves had done backstage, slowly slid my eyes up his body until I again met his large dark eyes. The effect was electric. Jeeves took my hand and held it to his heart. I felt it thumping under his starched white shirtfront. A tad fast, but regular. He wore a tiny bit of stage makeup, outlining his eyes and making them even larger. I wanted to swoon. But I had a job to do, and that job was to be the best damned Ginger Rogers this bunch had ever seen!

 _Night and day you are the one_  
_Only you beneath the moon or under the sun_  
_Whether near to me or far it's no matter darling_  
_**Where** you are_  
_I think of you, night and day—_

 _Day and night_  
_Why is it so that this longing for you_  
_Follows where ever I go?_  
_In the roaring traffic's **boom** , in the silence of my lonely room_  
_I think of you, night and day--_

The orchestra swelled to a crescendo. Jeeves continued to lock eyes with me as he sang the big finale.

 _Night and **day** —_ _Under the hide of me, there’s an oh such a hungry yearning_  
_Burning inside of me_  
_And this torment won’t be through_  
_Till you let me spend my life making **love** to you_  
_Day and night, **night and day!**_

We strolled into the dance, strings and a soft saxophone playing the verse softly under us. During the first section I had to repeatedly walk away from him, head held high. He came around and blocked me from going further. Each time Jeeves blocked me, I shivered.

Gently, the orchestra came to the chorus. Brass and drums, _pianissimo_ , were added to the mix. Jeeves took my hand. A jolt went through me. He swung me out, and we were off to the races!

He twirled and swooped me around the polished black stage. My feet had no difficulty finding where they should be, even when I was dancing backwards.  The orchestra played louder and more forcefully, percussion adding fullness. Jeeves pulled me into him. Again the delicious sensation of thumping into his broad chest. The strings fluttered, the double bass plucked, the horns subdued as the melody softened.

We danced closely, my head next to his. My man no longer displayed stage fright. We continued to look at each other as we danced and turned. His chiseled features were oddly soft in concentration.

Then the strangest thing happened. The audience ceased to exist. It was as if we were connected, gliding and swaying. There was only Jeeves, Bertram, and the music. We were, as the chappie said, the very spirit of the dance. The feeling of his strong arms around me was heavenly. When we again broke apart and danced next to each other, I was filled with a bliss I had never experienced. I grabbed the white and silver ruffles of the skirt in my right hand and waved it out.

The music flowed over us, compelling our feet, legs and arms to move. My dial broke open in an ear-splitting grin from sheer happiness. Jeeves smiled back in his Jeevesian way.

I defy anyone (who is not Fred and Ginger) to dance as well as we did. The violins added little flourishes here and there that matched our movements.

The orchestra swelled up, _accelarando,_ flowing us into the final, most difficult section of the number. We danced faster and faster, I twirled, then it was step, bend, hop onto Jeeves’s hip, arm around his shoulder, his arm around my waist, legs tucked up—my skirt went flying as we went one, two, three, four, five, six, _seven, eight_ times around!—there was a _crescendo_ , the big finish, cymbals clashing! The orchestra dropped into _diminuendo_ for a soft romantic, ending. As did we, into the dip and I managed a graceful, languid backbend. We stared into each other’s eyes, breathing hard from exertion.

 There was a long, awful silence. We didn’t move.

_We botched it. They hate us. Oh God._

A tremendous wave of applause crashed over us. Cheers, whistling and stomping rocked the club. Jeeves helped me up. The audience was on their feet, some on the tables and chairs, shouting with delight. I couldn’t take it in. Oofy was on his feet, pounding his hands together, yelling, “Bravo!”

Jeeves and I looked at each other, back at the audience, and bowed, still holding hands. We bowed again. The applause did not lessen, in fact, whistles were added to the mix!

As we turned hand in hand to walk offstage, Beryl rushed out in her little red costume, threw her arms around my shoulders, breaking my grip on Jeeves, and placed a big wet smacker on yours truly's cheek! The audience roared approval; she smiled at me and planted another one of those smackers on my mouth.

“I say, what are you doing?”

“Saving your hide, idiot,” she whispered. “Smile at _me!_ ”

Baffled, I did as told. Jeeves was the picture of polite composure, a tiny smile on his lips. The audience was still going, and the wolf whistles had again started, I assumed this time for Beryl and not for Bertram. I lifted Beryl up, bobbed another curtsy, and ran off the stage, her hand in mine. The lights came up for intermission.

 

 

As we reached the safety of the wings, I took a look at Jeeves. He had reverted to his normal stuffed frog expression, but his eyes flashed at Beryl the same way they had when I was waltzing around the stage with the late very unlamented Mr. Simpson. Assuming Beryl wished to stay in the land of the living, I steered her away.

 “Fred and Ginger had nothing on the way you two were smoldering at each other. I’m hanging on you with the look of love as long as you’re in public tonight, Bertie.”

She hauled Jeeves and me into a crowd of well-wishers spilling into the backstage area.

“Bertie, that was bloody marvelous!” Oofy Prosser clapped me on my silk-clad shoulder. “It was like watching the real thing.” He glanced at Jeeves. “Good work, my man.”

“Thank you, sir.” Jeeves inclined the head. “I endeavor to give satisfaction.”

Eric Stanton was right behind him. “Jolly good, chaps! It could have been Simpson and Jakes out there!”

“Quite,” I agreed shakily.

I was too dazed to do more than nod and say “thank you” to all of the gents and fillies surrounding us. The excited chatter went right past this Wooster; the grey matter was still on the stage with Jeeves, staring into his large dark eyes.

“You have to do that routine at our club’s smoker!”

“Dance at our reunion!”

“Do this at our—“

Continuing to n. and s. “thank you”, I headed toward the dressing room, wanting a few minutes to myself to clear my head. Beryl detached herself.

“Bertie, darling, I have to go back and see how the second half’s setting up. Get yourself some champagne, you’ve earned it!”

“I should, I’m paying for it,” I said. She scampered off.

Suddenly Jeeves materialized in front of me.

“Jeeves! That was ripping! Astounding! I’ve never had a better dance partner in my life! And I’ve had some corkers in New York! Ripping, ripping! Did you hear them clapping? The cheers? Ripping, I say!” I was babbling, but the excitement was too much.

Jeeves was giving me a peculiar look, and breathing heavily. And not from exertion this time.

A gaggle of actors dressed in Pierrot costumes clattered down the stairs to the stage, none of them looking at us. Grabbing my hand, Jeeves pulled me to a door marked **ELECTRICAL KEEP OUT**. With his free hand, he tested the doorknob, opened it, and yanked me into the room without so much as a by your leave! From whence had this Jeeves emerged?

He shut the door behind us, glancing around to ascertain that we were alone. I presume we were, because his next action was to push me up against the wall! I mean to say, my valet was absolutely manhandling me! I very much doubt that Fred ever shoved Ginger against a wall.  Perhaps he did when nobody was looking. 

“Oh, sir,” Jeeves growled. The expression on his face made my insides quiver in the most delightful way. I liked this Jeeves, oh yes I did. A small part of me worried that we might be caught, that some electrical working bloke was somewhere in here. I was pinned between the cold concrete wall and an overheated Jeeves. Between a rock and a hard place, if you take my meaning. But a part of me—that is to say, the part of me between my legs—thought this was a topping idea and that the small part of me should shut up and let me get on with it.

Jeeves rained kisses on my face, my cheeks, my forehead. “You’re so exquisite,” he whispered, his lips next to my shell-like ear. His voice was deeper than I had ever heard it. His—um—oh dear, how do I say this in mixed company—I was going to write his little Jeeves, but it was anything but little, but big Jeeves isn’t right, because all of Jeeves is quite enormous--his lower Jeeves was as hard as marble.  Wooster wanted to become much more intimately acquainted with this lower Jeeves. My lower Wooster agreed with me.

I lunged for his mouth, but he pulled his head back, eyes wide.

“I—I cannot do this, sir.”

“Jeeves!?!”

“I cannot.” He started to move away. I quashed this foolish notion by cupping his buttocks and pulling him against me. He was taller than me, so that Lower Jeeves was pressed against the district just under my navel.

“You’re doing a spiffing job so far,” I whispered. “Carry on, Jeeves.”

He shivered as I pulled him closer and tried getting either him farther down or myself farther up.

“No, sir, please, I have to stop. I simply must stop.”

Suddenly he pulled away, straightening his clothes. His face returned to its stoic mask. He produced a white handkerchief and briskly wiped the lipstick from my face. “Allow me the liberty, sir. It would not do for your lipstick to be smeared.” Because he had not allowed my mouth anywhere near his dial, more’s the pity, there was no matching lipstick on his face. 

I was dumbfounded. That bloody vow!

“That bloody vow!” I blurted.

Jeeves stared at me.  A thick, stinging blush attacked my face and ears. He was suddenly out of the room. The thick iron door closed with a hollow _thunk._

I slumped against the wall, hypo-hype-hyperventilating, stunned. I felt like Fred had let go of Ginger during one of her turns.

 

 

 

Fred and Ginger dancing "Night And Day" in The Gay Divorcee'

 

 

Ella Fitzgerald singing "Night And Day". Jazzier arrangement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ella Fitzgerald recorded "Night And Day" in 1956. Hence the jazzier arrangement. Early 1930s recordings favored the four-beat of the foxtrot. The text version of the dance is a two-beat foxtrot, hence much faster.
> 
> A dance orchestra is not the same as a big band. It has more instruments, including strings.


	16. Like Riding A Bicycle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jeeves wears a teal dressing gown.
> 
> Leave a comment and I promise to answer, because comments complete me.

It was nearing the dawn hour when I staggered into the flat. After the show there had been champagne, good fellowship, and much pounding on the Wooster back for arranging such a jolly good evening. Oofy Prosser couldn’t stop hugging me. This was quite unpleasant, as I had to then look at Oofy in extreme close-up. I don’t know how Eric stands it. Someone for everyone, even though it’s bally Beauty and the Beast with Eric and Oofy. Eric must keep his eyes tightly shut to kiss the man, that’s all I can say. True to her word, Beryl stuck to my side all night as if I was flypaper and she was a bluebottle. She even went with me into the star dressing room and helped Minnie strip off the costume. After Minnie left, carrying the dress, it was with a pang I let Beryl remove my blonde wig and wipe off my makeup. That dance was one of the highlights of this Wooster’s life.

“That dance was one of the highlights of this Wooster’s life,” I moaned. “He’s gone, Beryl. No doubt packing so that he can flee to another employer, some staid bloke who won’t stoke his furnace.” Jeeves had disappeared after our encounter in the electrical room.

She shook her head, smearing pungent-smelling cold cream over the dial. “You know Jeeves won’t leave you.”

“But I took an unforgivable liberty with my own manservant!”

“ _He_ kissed _you_ , didn’t he?” Beryl demanded.

“Can I help it if I have too much sex appeal?”

I saw her roll her eyes in the mirror. “Right, Clark Gable has nothing on you.”

“Clark Gable? Don’t you think I’m more the William Powell sort of gent? Sophisticated, well-dressed, quips on the lips?”

“Yes, he is more your type.”  She cleaned the aforementioned lips, temporarily preventing me from talking. The cold cream tasted horrible. She smiled at my reflection. “That ending had pizzazz, all right. It delivered the goods—Jeeves. Want to bet he’s wallowing in guilt right now?”

I unshipped a sigh from the depths. Beryl was right. It was rather a revelation, thinking Jeeves might feel guilt. When she’d moved on to the Wooster cheeks, I moaned, “Until the last few days, I had perceived him as a man above such things as strong emotion. My deepest beliefs have been shattered. What faith am I to have in the world now?”

Beryl made a noise very much like a female “Tchaw!” She kissed the top of my head. I very much wished she'd kiss me on the mouth, but Gerald had staked his claim on that mouth and I was far too _preux_ to ask for such a thing.

“Jeeves is a _man_ , Bertie. Men are men, take it from me. I’ve watched him for a weeks now. There’s a lot going on under that blank face. He wants you, and no mistake. Don’t jerk back like that! Sit still so I can clean your eyes.”

When she was finished and I stank of cold cream, she helped me into my evening clothes. We went back out, her arm tucked in mine, smiling and nodding at the rude remarks directed at us for taking so long in the bally dressing room.

 

 

I entered the old homestead with great trapeze—great tread—great trepidation. The lights were out. I dropped my top hat on the striped armchair, as well as my coat and white silk scarf.

“Jeeves?” I whispered. “Jeeves?”

There was no response. For a panicky moment I was certain Jeeves _had_ stolen out like a thief in the night. Quietly, I went down the passage toward his lair. There was no light under his door. I rapped as softly as a mouse.

“Jeeves?” I whispered. “Jeeves, old fruit? Are you there?”

There was no sound from inside. I raised my voice. “Jeeves? Jeeves?”

There was an ostentatious snore. A dizzying feeling of relief washed o’er me. Jeeves was still here. He was sleeping. And snoring. Huh. First he kisses me, next, he’s snoring. Perhaps Beryl was right, Jeeves was human after all. I found that idea profoundly unsettling.

“Jeeves, wake up,” I hissed. “It’s the young master.”

Another snore greeted my words. I rapped harder. “Jeeves?”

Silence. How deeply could the man sleep?

Perhaps he wasn’t sleeping. Perhaps he was faking, hoping I would go away. Why would he want me to go away? Yes, it was three in the ante meridiem, but why wasn’t he feeling the feudal spirit enough to open the damn door?

“Jeeves? Are you awake?”

Silence. The hell with it, I was going to open this door.

It was locked. Locked! When had Jeeves ever have cause to lock his door?

“Jeeves, are you all right?”

Again there was silence. Then, a subdued voice. “Yes, sir. Please do not worry about me.”

“Your door is locked. Are you conducting science experiments in there? Printing counterfeit pound notes? Making a voodoo doll of Aunt Agatha?”

“No, sir. It would be best if you went to bed. It is very late.”

“I want to talk to you, Jeeves.”

“It would be best if you went to bed, sir,” he repeated. Oh, hell! If it hadn’t been for my respect for the man’s privacy, I would have flung open the door—after he unlocked it of course, you can’t very well try to fling open a locked door --and demanded to know why he was behaving in such a bally exasperating way. This wasn’t like Jeeves. But this wasn’t like me, either. Knocking on his door in the middle of the night, desperate to talk to him. I mean, I’ve been desperate to talk to him previously, but it was about an unwanted engagement or someone convincing me to steal precious objects at considerable risk to the Wooster neck. This was different, and dashed unpleasant as well. What was one supposed to do? I realized that I didn’t know what to talk about. Did I want to say, “What ho, that was a corker of a kiss!” or “Jeeves, don’t worry, old fruit, I’ll still respect you in the morning”?

The silence continued. Not knowing what else to do, I slid down to the floor to a sitting position, and leaned my back against the wall next to the door. “Jeeves, you missed a top-hole birthday party. More’s the pity, since you arranged it. Beryl pulled together one hell of a show. She was true to her word, she was fastened to the young master’s side. Any suspicions about you and self safely allayed. Oofy was beside himself all night. That cake was a masterpiece, especially when that chorus boy jumped out of it wearing nothing but bits of gold ribbon. Eric didn’t like that much. Fancy anybody being jealous of Oofy. Funny old world, what?” I took a deep breath. “Everybody was happy, except this Wooster. Because you kissed me and then you biffed off without a word. I’m not that kind of a girl, Jeeves.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said from the other side of the door. “It shall not happen again.”

 _But I want it to happen again_ , I almost said. “Nothing to concern yourself about, old thing. A whim of the moment! The roar of the crowd, don’t you know.” I paused. “Let’s forget tonight ever happened. Well, not the dance and the applause and all that, but the rest of it. I intend to put it out of my mind.”

“Yes, sir,” came the voice.

“Please unlock the door, Jeeves. I’m not going to ravish you. It’s only been a few days, Jeeves, we’ll get back to normal after a good night’s sleep.”

The door was unlocked, and it opened. Jeeves stepped out and blinked down at me. He was wearing a teal dressing gown. Teal?  

“Jeeves,” I choked, “you’re wearing _teal!”_

“It was a gift from my sister, sir.”

“The man who refuses to allow his employer to wear brightly-colored ties, head to toe in teal?” This night was getting stranger and stranger. It suited him, set off his dark hair and eyebrows. There was still a bit of eyeliner on his lids. 

“Sir, why are you on the floor?”

“Oh, just sitting, don't you know, passing the time, admiring how clean you keep the rug.” He helped me to my feet. Perhaps it was abetted by the champagne, but physical contact sent a bolt of lust straight through me.

“Jeeves,” I muttered, “maybe we shouldn’t get back to normal.”

“Sir?”

The words came out in a breathless rush. “Normal doesn’t have to be _normal_ , normal can be something abnormal, no, not abnormal, there’s nothing abnormal about two men kissing, no matter what the law says, it’s quite normal, what what? Quite normal and much to be desired, I mean to say, _absolutely_ normal for a man in the prime of life to enjoy a passionate embrace, Jeeves, and I did enjoy that passionate embrace—“ I flung my arms out at my sides and looked up at him. “Kiss me, Jeeves!”

What did that Matthew Arnold say about six drops of time? Well, those six drops of time dried up entirely and cracked the dry earth while I stood there like a ninny, arms flung out at my sides.  Jeeves looked at me with the air that Bertram had finally gone round the bend.

At a loss, I gave a twirl, giggled like an imbecile and said, “Dance with me, Jeeves?”

“No. Good night, sir.”

The door closed.

 

 

I awoke to a soft cough. The sun should have been shining cheerfully into the old bedroom, a cup of tea nearby, Jeeves in his uniform. As my eyes grew accustomed to the dark, I saw that the sun was nowhere to be found, neither was a cup of tea, and Jeeves was still in his teal dressing gown.

“Jeeves?” I was confused. “I’m confused. What time is it?”

“Four-thirty in the morning, sir.”

“I say, I only went to bed an hour ago.”

“I know that, sir. I gave some thought to what you said. If you will permit me to speak freely.” He switched on the lamp by the bed, causing deep shadows to fall on the walls.

“Of course, after all, Jeeves, you’re standing in my bedroom in your dressing gown...oh. _OH._ ”

“Indeed, sir.” Was it my imagination, or did the man actually seem nervous? Would wonders never end?

“Yes, sing on! Pour out the liquid music of your voice!”

He didn't look at me. “Sir, recent days have greatly discombobulated me. I have developed feelings—“ he swallowed! Jeeves, discombobulated! “Physical urges that I thought I had successfully conquered many years ago.”

I bobbed up in bed, delighted. “Jeeves! You’re having physical urges toward _me_?”

“Strong physical urges, sir.”

“I have also been feeling strong physical urges toward you, Jeeves! Let not our physical urges be unmet! Thingummys done well with a thing, exempt something with fear. The Swan of Avon knew what he was talking about!"

Jeeves continued to stand there, staring down at me.

“Well?”

“I confess, I do not know how to proceed, sir.”

“That makes one of us!” Leaning forward, I grabbed the ends of his dressing gown belt and yanked them as hard as I could. Jeeves lost his footing and toppled down on top of me with a surprised “Oof!”

With his mouth in kissing distance, I gave him a playful peck on the lips. Then I moved my head back to drink in the sight of lustful Jeeves.

Jeeves still looked nervous! This was hardly the reaction I expected with my valet lying nearly crosswise on top of me. I licked my lips. “Jeeves—Jeeves—are you protecting your maidenly honor?”

“Sir,” he gasped, “I want to kiss you, I want to do more than kiss you, but I find myself strangely apprehensive. If I surrender to my carnal feelings, how do I know that is the wisest course of action? How do I know if this is for the best? How do I know whether or not our comfortable life will be shattered?”

“You don’t know unless you try,” I answered. “Don’t fret, this Wooster has experience to burn.” I shifted. “Sit up.”

Jeeves sat up and settled himself next to me. I lifted the coverlet and swung my legs over so that I was sitting next to him.

His posture was straight as always, his hands folded in his lap. “Sir,” he said, and there was the merest hint of a quaver, “I’m not—I’m not—“ His dark eyes were wider than I’d ever seen them. 

“I say, Jeeves, this is whole new you I’m seeing tonight! The man behind the mask.” I put my hands on either side of his head and turned his face toward mine.

“It’s all right, Jeeves,” I said. “You don’t have to do more than you can manage, old thing.” I refrained from adding, “and I need you to manage a _LOT_ ” because that would send him out of the bedroom and back to his lair, and we’d have to start all over again.  This Wooster did not have the patience, no sirreee.

I kissed him again, lightly, on the mouth, then took my hands from his face and put them on his broad shoulders. They were as tight as over tightened cello strings. “Loosen up, my good man.” I massaged his shoulders.

I leaned forward and kissed down the side of his face, nipping at his ear. He gave the most pleasing little groan.

His shoulders relaxed a bit, so I moved my hands farther down his torso, stroking him through his teal dressing gown, feeling his pectoral muscles and the gratifying solidity of his massive chest. It was as if I was unwrapping a Christmas present, half-knowing and half-not-knowing what was inside the box. 

“Take off your dressing gown,” I said hoarsely.

Jeeves shrugged smoothly out of his dressing gown. He was in dark navy pajamas. He started to stand up to hang the garment but I halted him.

“Not now.”

“Very good, sir.” He expertly folded the dressing gown and set it at the end of the bed. Even in the middle of all this, he was orderly.

“Take off your pajama top.”

“Very good, sir.” He undid the buttons and peeled it off as smoothly as he’d taken off his dressing gown. The sight nearly made my eyes fall out.

“Golly,” I gulped.

His body—it was not a youthful body. It was not a Charles Atlas weight-lifter chap’s body.  It was a magnificent body. No wonder it had felt so oojah-cum-spiff to collide with him! Unlike my lean, aristocratic self, he came from sturdy working stock. Stripped to his waist, Jeeves was most impressive. Broad shoulders, heavy barrel chest, slightly fleshy with age, nicely muscled arms.  Really, if one had to face him in a fight, one would stare, swallow and then leg it in the opposite direction. Pale skin stretching in all directions, a thatch of curly dark chest hair, a thickish waist with a small paunch, a mole near his left collarbone—

“Do you do Swedish exercises every morning, Jeeves?”

“No, but one does attempt to keep fit.”

“Whatever you’re doing, keep on doing it.”

He turned toward me and gathered me into said nicely muscled arms.

I kissed along his neck and down his collarbone. The smell of him was divine, an admixture of brilliantine, woodsy aftershave and the most delicious _eau d’Jeeves._

My mouth kissed across the wide chest I never dreamed I’d get a good look at. He shuddered, and for a second I thought he was going to leg it out of the room. I was reminded of a groom at the racing stable, hauling in a frightened stallion, its ears back, showing the whites of its eyes. I refrained from saying, “Whoa, big fella!” That would not have gone over well, however appropriate it seemed.

Then Jeeves lowered his head and flicked his tongue at the side of my neck, causing all thoughts of horses, grooms and stables to shatter, and making the lower Wooster twitch, urging me to get on with it, please.

Faced with a solid wall of Jeeves, I loosened his arms and draped them over my shoulders. His large hands slid down to my shoulder blades. “Kiss me, Jeeves. And put some pepper into it!”

He kissed me. He was trembling. I must say, it made me awfully chuffed to have a half-naked Jeeves trembling like a schoolgirl. His lips were soft, as soft as Beryl’s, but less full. Full enough for this young master! I pressed my mouth against his, and for several minutes we continued the labial press, mouths barely open. His breath puffed softly against my face, his large dark eyes closed.

I disengaged myself and leaned in, close to his ear. “Do you like that, Jeeves?”

“Yes.” He moved his face alongside mine, smelling my hair, then smelling down my neck. It tickled. I giggled, but it was a very masculine giggle.

“What’s your name,” I gasped. “Besides Jeeves? Or are you just Jeeves?”

“Reginald.”

“Reginald?” I rolled the name around my tongue. “Reginald. Reg. Reggie. Reggie, old fruit. Reginald. No, it simply won’t do, I’m sorry.”

His response took me by surprise. “Thank you, sir. I greatly dislike my first name.”

“What would you prefer? Sweetheart? Mine own? Tuffins?”

“Jeeves, sir,” he said, and kissed me again. Despite not having kissed anyone for years, rather than grabbing me the way he had at the Pink Slipper, he was taking his sweet time. Well, why not? We were both enjoying ourselves and there could be only one first time.

I slid my tongue into his mouth, and can you credit it? The man _sucked_ on it! Lower Wooster was starting to yell for attention. Not now, L.W., U.W. is busy. Jeeves continued to suck, using suction to pull my tongue deeper into his mouth. It was hard to believe that the man had not made whoopee in a dog’s age. I mean to say, it must be like that riding a bicycle wheeze people are always quoting. I wouldn’t know, because I’ve always been appalling at riding a bicycle.

I added my own tongue to the mix, which had hot arousal tap dancing down my spine and nearly causing lower Wooster to do cartwheels. I moved to undo his pajama bottoms. Jeeves pulled back.

“Sir!” He looked alarmed.

“Jeeves, what are you afraid of? Come on, let’s get those pajamas off.”

His hands covered his manly bits protectively. “I’m sorry, I felt—“ Jeeves drew  a long breath. “I don’t know if I can continue these activities.”

Lower Wooster was demanding:

 “ _Oh what the hell, just push him over and have done with it.”_

_“Be quiet, Lower Wooster, I’m not some lower class lout. I am a gentleman, with a Code, no less. This situation demands gentleness, finesse.”_

_“Blast it, Upper Wooster—“_

_“Shut **up.”**_

I slid my hands along my man’s muscular thigh. “Jeeves, please remove your pajama bottoms.” I said it the same way I asked for a brandy and soda.

“Very good, sir.” He undid his flies, and removed the pajama bottoms, folding them carefully. My goodness, the bulge in his cotton drawers was absolutely intimidating.

“Good lord, Jeeves, that is a truly bona basket!”

“Thank you, sir.”

Jeeves slowly slid off his drawers. Oh, my sainted grandmother, his todger was indeed intimidating. His blood wasn’t the only part of him that was Viking!

“Dear me,” I said in a manly whimper. “That’s—well, how on earth have you kept that splendor to yourself, Jeeves? Surely you must know how impressive it is!”

“Thank you, sir.” The corners of his lips twitched upwards. He almost smiled! One simply could not take one’s eyes off that regal prick. Again, my mind was put in the direction of a horse, but a different part of the horse.

“If I might point out, sir, you are still fully dressed.”

“Well, that does make things a bit lopsided. Help me out of these.” It was but five seconds before my coral pajamas lay folded neatly next to his.

I gave him a positive leer, letting him see happy Lower Wooster. “Let’s move on, Jeeves.” I slid myself over so that I was behind his broad, naked back. I reached around and grasped Lower Jeeves. It was so much larger than any todger I’d grasped, including my own, that I was slightly startled. It was again as hard as marble. He sucked in a breath when I gripped it.

“Oh, sir...”

“Call me Bertie, old thing!”

“I...can’t...oh...” He was curling forward, hands at his sides, clutching the bedclothes.

“You like that?” I crooned, moving my hand up and down, lightly holding his prick. I tightened my hand.

“Yes, so very much,” he moaned. “Don’t stop, please.”

The angle was wrong for me to take him in my mouth, so I continued to use my hand while he moaned, sitting bolt upright, then curling back, his eyes closed and his mouth open. It was sheer heaven watching my man losing control under my grip.

His body stiffened, head back, his prick swelled, his eyes flew open as he let out a great shout and climaxed. Fluid jetted out, running over my hand and his groin.

He sat forward, head down, hair in his eyes, breath heaving. Inspired, I pushed my hips against his back.

Suddenly, he twisted around. “Sir, I fear we must stop here.”

“Nooo,” I whined. “It’s my turn, Jeeves, if I don’t come off I’ll explode!"

“I can’t, I must apologize, sir, I know it’s unfair, but I must leave.” In a matter of seconds, he’d gathered his clothes and evaporated!

Leaving Bertram with cyanotic bollocks and baffled grey matter. Whatever was wrong with the man? I lay back down on the pillows and proceeded to pull myself off, thinking of how Jeeves had looked when he climaxed. A gorgeous sight. Would I see it again?

Damn it all to hell!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jeeves in a teal dressing gown is unapologetically stolen from [Something of Vengeance](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10812/chapters/13844), a Sherlock Holmes/Jeeves and Wooster crossover by blackletter. I highly recommend it!
> 
> Teal is a medium blue-green color. Its name comes from that of a bird—the common teal (Anas crecca)—which presents a similarly colored stripe on its head.


	17. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bertie learns something he'd rather he didn't.
> 
> Please leave a comment! They are my polka dot silk ties.

“It was a catastrophe,” I moaned, head between my kid gloved hands. “He bounded away faster than a deer sighting a peckish carnivore.  He would have bounded away even faster if I hadn’t let go of his—his instrument. As it was, it was extremely lopsided. What I mean is, our carnal conduct, not his instrument, his instrument is superbly centered, right where it should be, no, more to the point—“

“Bertie, _please_ , no details.” Beryl twiddled her empty glass in her slender fingers.

We again sat in a back booth in the saloon bar at the Pig & Bun. I didn’t like the place any better than I had the last time. It wasn’t any cleaner or less crowded. In fact it was more crowded and smelled of beer, cigarettes and honest toil. But as Beryl and self were discussing the love that dare not make a peep we kept our voices down. 

Sitting opposite me, wrapped in her blue wool coat, a pert hat perched on her dark brown curls, Beryl clucked sympathetically. It was Thursday, four days after Oofy’s birthday celebration and my triumph as Ginger Rogers. 

 “There are never any guarantees, sweet. You did what you could.”

“I did blasted _more_ than I could! I was as considerate as if he was a small child—no, wait, I don’t mean I thought of him as a small child, that’s ghastly, I mean I laid on the tenderness with a generous hand, not laying a hand on a child, I’d never do that, I’m not a pervert—“

“Bertie...” her voice trailed off and she looked at me with a disappointed mother’s pity. This was not to be borne! How many times had she looked at me with flashing eyes and seductively half-opened mouth! Don’t think about that, Bertram, I admonished myself. Beryl belongs to Gerald now. Beryl and Gerald, sounds like a music hall act. _Beryl and Gerald, Patter And Song, Held Over, Third Week_

“Bertie? Are you listening to me? Bertie?”

Beryl’s voice snapped me out of my reverie. “Congratulations on being held over a third week, old girl.”

“Third week?”

“Oh! Right! Jeeves! Since our lip lock, he’s been the soul of efficiency. The soul- _less_ of efficiency, if that’s a word. Meals bang on time! Clothes laid out! Flat as clean as a hospital ward! No words unless verbal communication is a requisite. ‘Very good, sir’ ‘Do you require anything further, sir’. Yes, I bally well _do_ require something, and it’s Jeeves _en déshabillé_! It’s like trying to talk to...to a thing that doesn’t want to be talked to. A napkin ring would be a cheerier companion.” I signaled the waitress for another round. “I don’t know what to do,” I moaned dolefully. “He’s my servant, I can’t bally well say, ‘Jeeves, suck my manly length’, can I?”

“Bertie!” Beryl grimaced. “Can you please stop being so damned _specific_?”

“Sorry, old thing, it’s hard to keep it clean. You’re in the theater! You’re used to rough talk!”

“Not from you, Bertie. It’s like lip rouge on a pig.” She tittered. “Well, there was lip rouge on a pig, come to think of it—“

“Beryl! I was an enchanting delight as Ginger Rogers! The audience was spellbound by this vision, I’ll have you know!”

“Sorry, dear, I couldn’t resist.” Beryl tapped her fingers against the empty glass. There was an air about her I didn’t like. I like Beryl, but I didn’t like this air. Not at all. This air suggested that the cloud above me had a lead lining and was going to drop at any mo. “Bertie, are you falling for Jeeves?”

That caught me up short. “How would I know? It hasn’t even been two weeks since this dratted scenario rolled up its sleeves and went to work.” A mental picture of Jeeves in his shirtsleeves, which then transmogri-something into a vision of him starkers distracted me. “I haven’t the foggiest, Beryl,” I said, willing myself not to mentally picture Jeeves without his clothes on. "How did you know you were in love with Gerald?"

She thought, rubbing her lovely rosy bottom lip with a finger. "I was seeing several men when I met Gerald. There was something about him that--I don't know to describe it, Bertie. It caught me, that's the best way I can say it. We started going around, and I enjoyed his company more than the others, including you. Like you, I started to wonder if I was in love. It felt different. Then, Gerald sat me down and told me he wasn't going to tolerate my being with any other men. That was when it hit me. There was no argument on my side whatsoever. I didn't want to be with any other men. I wanted to be with Gerald. Only. When he walks into the room, I can't help smiling. I see us always being together, happy. That's love."

"That does sound a lot like me and Jeeves," I admitted. "I've always seen us being together. But as man and valet, full stop. It hasn't stopped me from seeing men or women. Before these past few weeks, I never imagined the man had a heart, let alone a body. His body's main purpose seemed to be carrying that magnificent brain around. I have seen behind the mask, Beryl, and I wish to see a great deal more."

The woman gave me a rummy look. “Would you consider looking elsewhere?”

Why on earth was she suggesting that? “Why on earth are you suggesting that?”

“Jeeves might not be right for you, Bertie.” She shifted in her seat. “What about someone younger? Your own age?”

“What? He’s not _that_ much older than myself!”

She raised an eyebrow. “He’s got a good ten years on you, and you’re thirty.”

“Not yet!” I yelped. “Steady on, I’m twenty-nine for at least five more months! Blast it, Beryl, I’m not interested in a callow youth.”

“You stopped being callow years ago.”

I gave her the most withering of withering looks, so much so that she would have turned into a raisin if she’d been less obstinate. “Perhaps one prefers older men. More sophisticated. Suave. Fine wines and art and such. More appreciative of life’s pleasures than the fellows at the Drones.”

“They don’t count. They’re idiots.”

“True, that.” I sighed a miserable sigh. “Jeeves is supposed to be all in for Bertram!”

She stared at the table. “Maybe he’s not so all in for Bertram.”

“Whatever do you mean, woman?” A cold hand clutched the heart.

“He’s—he’s seeing someone.”

“WHAT?” I jumped and knocked the waitress’s tray out of her hands as she approached us.

“Oi!” she yelped. “What the ‘ell are you doing?”

“Who?” I demanded of Beryl, heedless of the woman’s noises.

“I’m sorry,” Beryl said to the waitress. “Please, two more drinks.”

“I have to clean this mess up first, missus.” The waitress gave me a dirty look “ _Theater_ people,” she muttered and disappeared back into the huddled masses.

This Wooster was not to be deterred. “Who? _Who?_ _How?_ It’s only been a few days!”

Beryl gazed at me sadly, as if I was a cross-eyed spaniel who kept running into trees rather than flushing pheasants.

I gazed at her with wild surmise. “It’s that stage manager, Ned, isn’t it? He’s deuced toothsome AND young!”

“I told you, he only likes girls.”

“One of the Lavender Lads?”

“Bertie, I’d really rather not say,” In an effort to not meet my eyes, Beryl stared fixedly at the waitress’s mop bucket as the latter mopped up the spilled drinks and glass caused by my momentary seizure.

“What rot!” My hand slapped the table so hard my palm stung. “OW!” I shook my hand to lessen the pain. “Beryl, you _will_ tell me who has ensnared my man in his clutches!”

She started. “Keep your voice down. If you must know, it’s Eric Stanton.”

“Nonsense! Eric Stanton? He’s doing the coverlet two-step with Oofy.”

“But how could anyone turn down Jeeves?” Her hand flew to her mouth. “I’m so sorry, Bertie, that was an awful thing to say!”

The waitress returned, keeping an eyeball on me as she set down the drinks, careful to keep the tray out of reach. I threw back my whisky and s. in two gulps. “Dammit, woman, he flung himself at _me_ after the show! He kissed _me_! He came into the master’s bedroom and admitted the Wooster corpus has been inflaming him! How dare he take up with someone else who isn’t me? This shall be nipped in the bud, pronto!”

“Bertie, I am so sorry.” She put her hand over mine, but I pulled my hand out as if it had been spread with Irish butter. “I shouldn’t have told you. Please don’t let anyone know I did. I need to keep my job. Mr. Prosser would have me fired if he found out I knew.”

“You left me for that bounder Gerald, and now Jeeves leaves me in the lurch for Stanton? That second-rate song and dance man? He isn’t fit to shine Fred Astaire’s tap shoes! I mean to say, yes, Oofy is a walking nightmare but that doesn’t mean Stanton has to right to take _my_ Jeeves!”

I stood and threw several pound notes on the table.

“We shall see what we shall see, Missy, and devil take the foremost!”

With a resolute air, I turned to exit, bumped into a rough customer, barely evaded a punch in the nose, and made my way out into the night, steam coming out of my ears.

 


	18. Besmirching The Escutcheon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bertie discovers the truth.

By the time I reached home, the steam had ceased coming out of my ears, leaving me with an empty head. Many citizens would maintain I already have an empty head, but that’s neither here nor there. How could I confront Jeeves over something I did not have a right to confront him with? The man was entitled to a private life. As much as I despised being the _preux chevalier_ tonight, it was the right thing to do. That didn’t mean I couldn’t match Jeeves hauteur for hauteur. In fact, there was so much hauteur between us when Jeeves opened the front door I shouldn’t be surprised some of it bunged out into the hallway, flew down the stairs and hit the Jarvis the doorman in the back of the head.

“Good evening, sir.”

“Good evening, Jeeves. I am going straight to bed.”

“Very good, sir. I have laid out our blue stripe pajamas, sir.”

“Good night, Jeeves.”

“Good night, sir.”

Two men of iron will gazed at each other. With a sniff, I turned on my heel and headed for the bedroom.

Once the door was closed behind me I snatched a pillow from my bed, hit the mattress with it several times, then jumped up and down on it.

 

I bided my time until Saturday, when there was an evening show and a matinee of “Node’s Jollities of 1934”. Whilst pretending to read a novel, skim the newspapers and listen to the wireless, I tracked Jeeves’s comings and goings. Yes, one afternoon he went to the market, but since when had he required the better part of an afternoon to pick up some cabbages and a bottle of milk? But I held my tongue. I would be as the Biblical Daniel the shepherd, planning to mustache the lion in his den—is that the word I want? No, beard the lion in his den. Do lions have beards? How could one tell with all of those manes and things?  What if the lion was clean-shaven?

Never mind! The important thing was to catch Jeeves _en flagrante delicious_. But hadn’t I maintained that I had no right to interfere with my man’s life?

To blazes with it. If nothing else, Eric Stanton was cheating on my long-time chum, Oofy Prosser. Although before now I would not have numbered Oofy among my chums. Rather more on the outside of my social circle. Still, was it not the right thing to do to alert him to his lover’s infidelity? By Saturday afternoon I had convinced myself that the sitch had nothing to do with Jeeves and everything to do with poor wronged Oofy.

As I expected, Jeeves sallied forth to run errands after I told him I was going to the Drones. However, I did not stay at the Drones long. I consulted my pocket watch, estimating the time the matinee of “Node’s Jollities of 1934” would let out. Saying a hearty toodle-pip to all, I strolled toward the West End, trying to look like a chap on an sporty afternoon stroll. Dash it, Eric did not deserve a sterling cove like Oofy if he was going to have an affair with other people’s valets!

When I arrived at the Princess Theater backstage door, the matinee crowd had dispersed. The stage doorman gave me a cheery greeting and a smile. I smiled back, although it felt more like using a pulley to drag my lips into the proper position.

Like a stealthy cat, I snaked in and out of the cables and scenery, leaping behind the closing number carousel and banging my knee when it seemed I might be seen. Stifling a curse that would have shocked a hard-bitten veteran of the seas, I waited for the pain to subside before proceeding.

There it was. Eric Stanton’s dressing room. I pressed myself against the wall.

And there was Jeeves, waiting patiently outside the door. My stomach clenched. Eric ankled up from the stage area and smiled when he saw Jeeves. Jeeves gave a tiny smile back (!!). Eric put his arm around Jeeves and they walked into the dressing room and shut the door.

I mean to say! Slap me hard and call me Sadie! Jeeves and Eric! The rind! The gall! What did Eric have that I didn’t have? Besides easy charm and matinee idol looks?

I flushed hotly, the blood stinging my face. My stomach was doing its best to tie itself into a proper sailor’s knot, and my body developed a mild case of St. Vitus Dance. What would happen if I burst into Eric’s dressing room? Did I want to know what would happen if I burst into Eric’s dressing room? Did I want to see what I would see if I burst into Eric’s dressing room?

No, I did not. My traitorous brain was already painting florid photomurals of Eric and Jeeves laughing (not that I’d ever seen Jeeves laugh, but he probably saved it for others), Eric and Jeeves smoking a single gasper between them, Eric and Jeeves engaging in slap and tickle...I knew I should turn tail and head to the safety of home. Instead I stood there wretchedly, smoking a despairing cigarette.

 

Sometime later, Jeeves emerged from Eric’s dressing room, looking as collected and well groomed as ever. He was flowing toward the stage door when he was stopped by a sharp exclamation.

“Jeeves!”

It was Beryl! The tone of her voice did not bode well for my manservant.

I ducked behind a painted flat depicting a beach with starfish and seagulls for the “O’er the Oceans I’m Seeking You” number. It wasn’t as large as it had looked from the stage. I had to crouch down near the floor to hide myself.

“Good afternoon, Miss Beryl,” Jeeves replied coldly.

“Good afternoon my foot!” The volume of her voice suddenly decreased. I had to strain a tad to hear her. “Jeeves, what in the _hell_ are you doing with Eric Stanton?” Their footsteps were coming closer to the scenery! It was dusty as a Natural History museum’s long-forgotten storeroom, although without the taxidermied wild boars and crocodiles. My nose twitched.

There was a long pause, then Jeeves. “I fail to see how it is your concern, Miss.”

“It is, you great penguin! For one thing, Eric’s with Mr. Prosser. For someone so self-righteous about your master’s morals, that’s bloody hypocritical from where I’m standing. And you’re hurting poor Bertie.”

I was not going to sneeze. I was not going to sneeze. I was not going to sneeze.

“Mr. Wooster respects my right to a private life, Miss Beryl. Which is more than I can say for you.” My goodness, I hadn’t thought Jeeves capable of such bald-faced cheek!

“Maybe he does, but I’m here to tell you that Bertie is badly upset by your behavior, Jeeves. First you seduce him, then you run out on the poor man.  And then you take up with Eric! The lover of one of the show’s _producers_. Bertie’s beside himself. What are you _thinking_?”

“Miss Beryl, I shall not continue to discuss this further.”

He was about to say something else, when I could hold back no longer and let out a tremendous sneeze. In my haste to pull out my handkerchief, my shoulder hit the flat and it swayed. I attempted to grab the thing, but it fell over on top of me.

Beryl and Jeeves stared down at me. I sneezed again.

Instantly Jeeves was lifting the backdrop off of the young master, who was now completely covered with dust, accessorized with cobwebs. Beryl’s eyes were wide, her face turning as red as a turnip. Are turnips red? Potatoes? Some root vegetable. Her face turned as red as whatever root vegetable I mean.

Jeeves, meanwhile, was almost as pale as Beryl was red. I felt obliged to lighten the air.

“Are you all right, sir?”

“What ho, Beryl! What ho, Jeeves! What an amusing coincidence for you both to find me here! I, um, dropped a shilling and I was looking for it and it rolled behind this scenery—“

“Do stop it, Bertie,” Beryl ordered. “What are you doing here?”

I gave up. The air was, if anything, getting more weighty by the moment. “If you must know, I followed Jeeves here.” I looked up at him. “A little sparrow implied to me that you are behaving in a way not befitting a gentleman. So this Wooster came to see for himself. And this Wooster saw for himself. And this Wooster is disappointed, Jeeves.”

Jeeves was standing at attention, hands politely folded behind his back, staring into the middle distance. “Sir, if you wish me to tender my resignation—“

Suddenly anger replaced embarrassment. “Bollocks!” I snapped. They both winced at the unaccustomed obscenity. “I’ve told you before, I will _not_ accept your resignation. Even though you have behaved in a manner that has left a smirch on the Jeeves family escutcheon that cannot be wiped clean. Beryl, what made you think relations between my man and me is any of your bloody business?”

Her mouth opened and closed. “Bertie, it was the right thing to do. And who are you to criticize me? I’m not the one eavesdropping behind the scenery! And I’m not the one who is carrying on with the show’s leading man! The hell with both of you!” She turned on a bally marvelous ankle and stomped away, leaving an oleaginous silence between me and Jeeves.

“Sir—“

“I’ll see you at the flat, Jeeves. I shall dine at the Drones tonight.”

With that I took my leave, wondering if Jeeves would return to Eric Stanton’s dressing room.

 

 

It was with a great deal of trepidation that I opened the door to the flat. A number of whiskey and sodas at the Drones had not quelled my nerves at seeing Jeeves again.  Nor had it soothed the hot jealousy I felt when I did see Jeeves. “Good evening, sir,” said Jeeves, taking my hat and coat as smoothly as ever. As always, he gave no sign that anything untoward had happened at the Princess Theater.

“Good evening, Jeeves. A brandy, no soda.”

“Very good, sir.”

Jeeves handed me the drink and stepped back. It felt almost as if Eric Stanton was in the room.

“Jeeves,” I said, hardly a quaver in my voice. “I’ve given the Stanton wheeze a great deal of heavy thinking. And this Wooster has made a decision.”

An eyebrow rose slightly. The man was tense.

“If it is what you want to be with Eric Stanton, far be it from me to keep you from your desider—desidah—what’s the word I want, Jeeves?”

“ _Desideratum_ , sir. From the Latin, something that is needed or wanted.”

 “There you go. The ticker wants what it wants and all that.” I sipped at my brandy, thought the better of it, and swilled it all down.

“Sir—“

“Don’t thank me. It behooves me to be the bigger man. My urges for you with take a back seat. I shall return to the hunting ground with no hard feelings on either side.” Really, I wanted to scream at him, but I was determined to make the Wooster ancestors proud and behave in an honorable fashion. “We shall not speak of it again.”

“Sir—“

“Good night, Jeeves. Everything will be back the way it was tomorrow morning. Our indiscretion shall not ‘shatter our normal lives’, as you put it.”

“Sir—“

I went to the bedroom and closed the door.

 

I lay in the darkness, fretting and wishing I could not keep mulling over the events of the day. Jeeves’s smile as he looked at Eric Stanton kept reappearing to me. I wanted to take a swing at both of them, but particularly Eric, the valet-snatching blighter!

“Sir,” came Jeeves’s voice.

I looked upwards.

Jeeves was standing over my bed. He was wearing the teal dressing gown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An escutcheon is a shield bearing a coat of arms, most often a royal family's.


	19. Bagging Big Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bertie and Jeeves resolve their differences.
> 
> NC-17
> 
> Please comment. Comments warm me in the cold winter nights.

“You’re wearing your teal dressing gown,” I said stupidly.

“Yes, sir.”

“Why are you wearing your teal dressing gown?”

“I could not sleep, sir. The thought of your ‘returning to the hunting ground’, as you put it, was most upsetting.”

“This couldn’t have waited until morning, Jeeves?” I sat up in bed.

“Forgive me for taking the liberty, I shall return to my room directly.”

He turned and was about to shimmer out.

“Wait, Jeeves.” I switched on the bedside lamp.

“Sir?”

I folded my arms. “Why, may I ask, is the thought of my returning to the hunting ground upsetting? You’ve bagged big game of your own. Eric Stanton.”

“Sir,” his tone suggesting mild umbrage, “I have not ‘bagged’ Eric Stanton.”

“What would you call it? Snogging? Pashing? Having a game of mattress polo?”

“Sir!” It was too dark to see his face clearly, but I could almost hear his eyebrows twitching upwards.

Shame o’ercame me. Even Honoria Glossop would have been shocked by my language, and we all know what sort of language she uses when she’s browbeating a chambermaid for not having cleaned a hearth properly.

“Forgive me, Jeeves, that was unworthy of a Wooster.” I changed tack. “But I mean to say, if nothing else, it’s dangerous being with a chap like that. What of Oofy? Oofy feels the tender passion, the _amour propre_. Or is it _amour insensé?_ ”

“I believe you mean _l'amour vrai_ , sir.”

“Eh?”

“True love, sir.”

“Ah-hah! That is what you are stealing from poor Oofy! Have you no heart? No human feeling? No, I don’t suppose you do, being Jeeves and all.” In my anger, I wanted to hurt Jeeves as much as he had hurt me.

“I have a great deal of human feeling,” he said frostily. “One would have thought you, if no one else, would know that. If you will excuse me, sir, I shall no longer disturb you. Good night.”

A rare flash of understanding reached into my sluggish brain. I have these so rarely, it was worth paying attention to. If Jeeves was so discommoded he came to my room in his teal dressing gown rather than his uniform, he was distrait indeed. The Code of the Woosters behooved me to hear the man out.

“The Code of the Woosters behooves me to hear you out, Jeeves.” I gestured to the bed. “Sit down, man.”

“I would prefer to remain standing, sir.”

“You’re being as obstinate as ever, my man. However, you are also demonstrating the proper feudal spirit. So, what gives?”

He paused so long that one could have read an entire penny-dreadful, with breaks for tea and biscuits. “Sir, our activities of the other night were most pleasant.”

“That goes triple for me, Jeeves! So why look in the direction of the Princess Theater?”

“I am anxious, sir, that my physical reaction to you was merely the stirrings of long-dormant lust and not particular to yourself. Mr. Stanton approached me the night of our performance and asked if we might have a drink together. I refused him. Until you and I had engaged in our first contact, as it were.”

“Are you saying I drove you into Eric Stanton’s arms?”

“It was my cowardice, sir. I wished to explore the possibility of my feelings for you were not for you, but for any man.”

“I say!” I said. “I’m not just any man, Jeeves! There are those who would say I am exceptional, particularly when it comes to darts and throwing cocktail onions into spittoons. Perhaps I do not have the brainpower you do, but I’m not an idiot.” I braced myself. “So, how did he stack up? Should I be giving you more nights off?”

“While Mr. Stanton is undeniably handsome, he is not interesting. Like many actors, his principal interest and occupation is himself. Much time was taken up with Mr. Stanton displaying his press clippings, enacting scenes—particularly dramatic monologues—from some of his shows. And—“ Jeeves gave a perceptible shudder—“singing songs from many of his musical outings. He has had _many_ musical outings. If I may say so, sir, much of his repertoire makes Tin Pan Alley sound like Beethoven.”

“How was he in the pashing department?” I demanded.

“There is no possible answer to that question that would not upset you, sir. If I said he was good, you would be upset and hold it against me. If I said he was bad, you would be convinced I was lying. Neither is the optimal outcome. You should know, sir, that he and Mr. Prosser have an arrangement that allows them both to see other men. One would deduce that the arrangement is weighted in Mr. Stanton’s favor.”

That made a certain amount of sense. “Oofy would agree to anything to keep a dish like Stanton. As you must know, that is not the kind of man I am. Not in the least. Do you propose to go on seeing...him?”

“No, sir. I informed him this afternoon that our liaison was at an end.” Jeeves shuffled from one foot to another, by Jove! I almost fell out of bed at the sight. Jeeves, shuffling! The man had never shuffled in my presence before! Did that mean he was abashed?  “I was keenly aware that he was not _you_.”

Then in an astounding bit of cheek, Jeeves switched off the bedside lamp. He doffed his teal dressing gown, folding it neatly on a chair. In his navy flannel pajamas, he lifted the eiderdown and slid into bed beside me. I stifled a “ _what do you think you’re doing?_ ”

“I am sorry, sir.” He lay down, his dark hair on the pillow. Then he reached up with one large hand and touched my face. “I am so sorry, sir. I did not mean to hurt you.”

I should have stayed in high dudgeon, but suddenly my dudgeon was no longer high. I couldn’t help closing my eyes and leaning into his touch. Something was blossoming within me. Something that was making my heart pound and doing interesting and not unpleasant things to my innards.

His substantial body rolled toward me, the bed creaking. Then he kissed me. I relaxed, my head dropping down next to his on a pillow, eyes still closed, delighting in his touch, his kiss.  I opened my eyes. We stared into each other’s peepers for what seemed like an eternity. As far as I could make out his expression, Jeeves’s slightly raised eyebrows indicated that he was feeling apprehensive.

“I say, Jeeves, are you feeling apprehensive?”

“The feeling is similar, sir. After what has transpired, I feared you would turn me out of your bed.”

“Not on your Nelly, Jeeves!” I waved a nonchalant hand. “We can speak of transpired matters on the morning. Clear them from your mind.”

“Gladly, sir.”

“Think only of the here and now, Jeeves.”

“A pleasing notion, sir.”

“Now that you’re here in my bed, no turning out allowed!” I snuggled up to him, getting a big sniff of _eau d’Jeeves_. “Put aside all hesitation.” I put my hands against his pajama lapels. They were flannel, warm from his wonderful corpus. I let my tongue tickle the tip of his chin. He whimpered—in a virile, Jeevesian way, of course.

“You have a lovely body, sir,” he said when he could speak again. “Slim, with the fine bones of a true aristocrat. I’ve often been reminded of Michelangelo’s David, or perhaps a grown version of his Young Archer. Michelangelo preferred larger, muscular bodies. These sculptures might be considered anomalies--"

“Pish-tosh! Well, yes, I do get a bit of exercise, shinnying down water pipes, crawling through windows, dinner roll cricket. It all adds up. No more anemones. I wish to be kissed some more, my good fellow.”

 _“See, the mountains kiss high heaven,”_ he recited, “ _And the waves clasp one another; No sister flower could be forgiven if it disdained its brother; And the sunlight clasps the earth, And the moonbeams kiss the sea; What are all these kissings worth, If thou kiss not me?”_

“One of yours, Jeeves?”

“The poet Shelley.”

“If I kiss not you, they’re bally well worth nothing,” I said, planting a good one on him. I threw my leg over his as we proceeded to neck most heartily. Once you kiss Jeeves you stay kissed, if you know what I mean. Although you might not, having not kissed Jeeves. Take this Wooster’s word for it. You stay kissed.

This time his tongue landed in my mouth first. With tiny moans we explored each other’s mouths. “Hee!” I cried when Jeeves’s tongue licked up against my soft palate. “That tickles!” I demonstrated by licking his soft palate, and was rewarded with a faint-sounding “urk!” and his head jerking back.

“See what I mean?” I said triumphantly.

“Please refrain from that action, sir, if  you wish to continue kissing,” he said sternly. His tone was belied by his pressing Lower Jeeves against Lower Wooster. I suppressed a whoop of enthusiasm as our todgers got re-acquainted with each other, exchanging cards and tipping hats and whatnot. Lower Jeeves was swelling and hardening against lower Wooster, which was already several steps ahead.

My head was whirling, my very self filling with an overwhelming joy. I laughed into his mouth, grinning the way I had on the dance floor. The same feeling of overwhelming bliss o’er took me over, and o'er took me over good.

Jeeves pushed against me, burying his face in my neck with a moan. Moving my arm, I cupped the back of his head, pulling it away from my neck so that we could kiss some more. By Jove, with both our uppers and lowers pushing and sliding, I felt ready to faint with delight. But if I fainted, I’d miss whatever came next. To blazes with _that_!

“Sir,” Jeeves said in a molten voice. He packed more lust into that one syllable than the entire Song of Somebody-Or-Other. Losing _“Oh, that you would kiss me with the kisses of your mouth! For your love is better than wine”_ was fine and dandy by Bertram.

As we rubbed together, I concentrated on undoing the buttons on his pajama top, needing to get another look at that barrel chest. It was heaving against me, Jeeves breathing like a bellows. He reached to help, but I batted his hand away. I bally well know how to undo another chap’s pajama buttons. Buttons undone, I rewarded myself by spreading out the blue flannel, revealing the curly dark hair and nut-brown nipples. I tweaked the right one between my thumb and forefinger. Jeeves bucked wildly with a shout. With a wicked smile I tweaked it again, then the left one, causing more delightful motions. He pushed my leg off of his legs, then reversed the posish, wrapping his leg around my pins, pulling me into his groin. The heat and sweat between us was soaking into my pajama top, so I undid my buttons as well, pressing my naked skin against his. My head was buzzing with lust, my blood on fire.

Jeeves put his arms around me, gripped tightly, and rolled over onto his back. I lay atop him and almost came off right there, it felt so amazing. I ducked my head and ran my tongue down from his collarbone to his nipple, which was as far as my tongue could reach in my present position. Not that I wanted to change positions, oh, no, this was the bally best position I could ever remember being in. Jeeves was big and beautiful under me, his hair mussed, an absolutely astonished expression on his map. The taste of his sweat on my tongue was pure ambrosia. Obviously thinking turnabout was fair play, Jeeves applied his nimble fingers to the Wooster chest buttons.

I started shrieking obscenities. The closest I can manage to write without being utterly mortified went something like this: “Oh, how spiffing! Jeeves, it’s spiffing! Just spiffing, old chap!”

By unspoken mutual consent, we tugged off our pajama bottoms and drawers so that we could rub against each other without the impediment of layers of cotton. It was moist and hot down there, and oh so fantastic. The musky smell rising between us was enough to make me come off right there.

He threw his magnificent legs around me and pumped upwards, causing my brain to short-circuit and my body to vibrate. How much longer I could hold out against Jeeves’s assault on my senses was impossible to tell. But not much longer. His todger, hot and hard, slid against mine, until suddenly he went rigid, his eyes flew open, and he cried out "Sir!" This was too much; it carried me over the edge, rubbing until black and red stars blazed behind my eyelids and I groaned into a spectacular climax.

After lying there in the afterglow for several centuries, I rolled off of Jeeves to lie on my back.

“Good lord, Jeeves.”

“Indeed, sir.”

“That was bally amazing.”

“Indeed, sir.”

“Don’t keep saying indeed, sir.”

“It was indescribable, sir. Sleep now. Sleep.” He ran the back of his large hand down my cheek.

“You know best, Jeeves.”

“Indeed, sir.”

Giving in to post-coital fatigue, I dropped off into the deep and dreamless.

 

Young Archer

 

David

 

 Drawing (study)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Have you no heart? No human feeling?" is paraphrased from _Jeeves And The Old School Chum_
> 
> Michelangelo's "David" is the most famous of his sculptures. In his copious drawings and studies, he displays a distinct preference for large, muscular bodies. Quite a contrast.
> 
> Bertie's hands are nowhere near as large as David's, btw.


	20. Jeeves Takes Charge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bertie and Jeeves indulge in more carnal activities.
> 
> NC-17. Pure smut with a bit of fluff mixed in.
> 
> Bless you if you leave a comment. :D

By now, I am certain that a number of my readers have bunged this reminiscence into the homestead hearth, saying: “Bertie _Wooster_! This is sheer pornography! How can you, a gentleman and a scholar (well, not a scholar but that’s as may be) write such salacious, unspeakable prose?” There is clutching of pearls and having the maid dab the temples with _eau de cologne_. The male readers are doing much the same, except clutching their neckties, I suppose.

As I said at the beginning of this opus, it is my usual goal to write for a general audience. This snazzy nugget is meant for a more, what’s the descriptive, worldly-wise reader. The image I’ve painted of myself as an gormless imbecile is a tad contrary to the actual Bertram Wooster.

More shagging ahoy, so read on. Or retreat to the library for a glass of lemon squash and the latest copy of _Boy’s Own_.

 

I rolled over sleepily and blinked. To my surprise, Jeeves wasn’t there with the morning Darjeeling. I waited another minute. This was rummy. The man was always there seconds after my eyes hauled open. Maybe there had been an accident in the kitchen.

I shifted, and my back pressed against something...

Solid, warm and shifting.

The something was rather bulky. For one sleepy moment I wondered if somehow a brown bear had gotten into my bedroom.  A brown bear holding an iron rod that was pressing into my back.

Then I felt a large hand slipping around my side.

“Jeeves?”

“Good morning, sir.” came a muffled voice under the bedclothes.

Then I remembered the night before. Jeeves slipping into my bed. Jeeves and self engaged in naughty activities that were hands-down the best naughty activities I had ever participated in.

I was naked. Jeeves had finished undressing me in my sleep, It wasn’t a surprise that I did not awaken, he could probably undress me in my sleep standing on his head. (Now that would be something to see.) Jeeves was also naked. I rolled over onto my back. I started to pull the bedclothes off, but said large hand pinned my hand to the mattress.

“That is you, Jeeves, isn’t it? Could you let go of my hand?”

“No, sir,” came the same muffled voice. I felt the other hand glide down until it came upon my morning glory. The hand slid a fingernail along it, causing me to bite my lip, and then gently closed around it. My morning glory, not my lip, which was in all respects a far superior choice. Well, if this wasn’t fifteen kinds of delicious than my name’s not Bertie Wooster. Since my name is Bertie Wooster, you know it was definitely fifteen kinds of delicious. Maybe sixteen.

When I was a lad, Aunt Dahlia took me to Moray Firth, in Scotland. It was famous for those big grey fish with funny noses—dolefuls? Dolphins. Dozens of dolphins. We were taken out in a small boat on the River Clyde, where we were surrounded by several dolphins. I leaned as close to the water as I could. A dolphin skimmed along under the surface of the water, just under me. It was so much bigger than I anticipated that I almost toppled into the water, and only the ship’s mate kept me from an early death in the briny.

I was reminded of that dolphin, as Jeeves’s huge body moved under the bedclothes, even down to the eiderdown rippling like pink-gold water. He planted small kisses as he went, down my side, over my hip. Thrills seemed to spangle directly from each kiss. What a perfect way to wake up. I wanted to wake up like this every morning for the rest of my life. My eyes closed in bliss.

“Jeeves, I want to wake up like this every morning! I mean to say, Jeeves, in this as in all of your other many achievements you are a marvel, you stand alone, you—JUMPING JEHOSAPHAT!”

“Mmmph,” remarked Jeeves around a mouthful of my stiff-stander.

“Good golly!” I proceeded to thrash like a dolphin while Jeeves’s remarkably skilled mouth went to work. I mean to say, I saw stars, and they weren’t God’s daisy chain, either! I again yelled obscenities I will not repeat here. Again along the lines of “my goodness, that is a corker, once more around the carousel!” Suffice to say that the top of my head blew off while a rocket launched in my body, sparks everywhere.

“JEEVES!” I screamed as I came off in his mouth, my hips trying to comb his eyebrows and my hands clutching the eiderdown. He swallowed and sucked, and then I felt myself slide out of his mouth.

The shape under the covers shifted, moved, and blinking up at me was a disheveled, red-faced, _smiling_ Jeeves! I wouldn’t have believed he was capable of smiling before this. It was a splendid smile, a sublime smile, a magical smile. His eyes were at half mast. He made a happy noise and laid his head on my shoulder. From nowhere, he produced a handkerchief, and wiped his mouth. Was there no end to the miracles up his (unclothed) sleeve? I sincerely hoped not.

“Good morning, sir. I trust you slept well.”

Splendidly relaxed after that wondrous climax, I grinned at him hazily. “Like one of the dead, Jeeves, and I’ve woken up in Heaven.” Blast, when had God stolen Bertie Wooster and replaced him with Madeline Bassett?

“Your tea is by the bed. I would serve it to you, but I fear I am unable to reach it.”

“You made the master tea without your clothes on?”

“An apron, sir.”

“I would have liked to see that!”

“Indeed, sir.”

With that, Jeeves went back under the bedclothes!

“Jeeves, are you coming out?”

“In time, sir. Please lie on your stomach.”

Jeeves was bally well taking charge! Fine with me, I say. If taking charge meant having this gorgeous man crawling all over the young master, have at it!

“Er...you’re not proposing to sodomize me, are you? We haven’t got any oil, you haven’t prepared me, not to mention that gigantic thing could cause me serious injury!”  

“Thank you, sir. I do not plan to sodomize you,” Jeeves’s muffled voice said. “Allow me to take my pleasure with you.”

“I don’t know what you’re going to do, but if it doesn’t hurt, I’m game.”

The blighter rolled on top of me, pulling the eiderdown over both of our heads! I was about to protest, but his weight forced the air out of my lungs.

“Jeeves,” I wheezed, “you’re crushing me!”

“I am sorry, sir!”  He lifted his torso, balancing on his elbows lest he crush me to death. That was more like it! The warmth of his massive chest on my back combined with the cozy warmth under the eiderdown made me disinclined to leave the bed until the following summer.  Our smells mingled in the most corking way. Jeeves’s stiff-stander was standing stiff indeed as he slid it along the back of my thighs, then over my buttocks. I made a most unseemly noise and my hips bucked upwards. Not being able to use his hands, Jeeves wriggled a bit on top of me, which was so delectable I almost fainted. He pressed himself down and proceeded to rub his prick gently against the place just below the small of my back. The strangest sensation o’ercame me. It was sensual excitement, but a sort of paralysis, if that’s the word I want, as if the s.e. was in suspended animation.

“What _is_ that?”

“Your pundendal and perineal nerves— _sir!_ The pudendal nerve is the main nerve of the perineum. _Oh!_ It carries sensation from the external genitalia—“

“I DON’T CARE!” My rudeness could be forgiven in the heat of the moment because my external genitalia was rather frozen in ecstasy. Jeeves rubbed again, gently, and then a little harder.

He moved his hips and pressed down, until his prick slid between my cheeks. It pressed into the cleft, and he began to thrust against me. His bollocks gently slapped against me with each powerful thrust. The light from the room peeked through from where the eiderdown met the sheets. My lower Wooster was reviving from its swoon. Jeeves went faster, the most delicious growl rumbling from his chest against the skin of my back. My willowy form was pushed down into the mattress with each thrust. This time _Jeeves_ yelled obscenities, paraphrased to "Nietzsche is fundamentally unsound! This meets the required standard! All universal moral principals are idle fantasies!" His body spasmed, went stiff and he let out a loud shout. I felt seed shoot over my back. A minute later I followed suit, subconsciously blessing my pudendal nerve.

He let himself slide down on me, rolling over as he did, so he wouldn’t flatten me like a crepe.

“Jeeves?” I lifted my head and turned it to look at him. In the gloom under the bedclothes, I could see the corners of his mouth turned upward in a peaceful smile.

“ _Thank you_ , sir.”

“Thank _you_ , Jeeves. Um...could you do that thing with your mouth again?”

“With great pleasure.”

“Not as much pleasure as I’m going to have!”

 

 

I was in a great gray canyon, and I was falling. Fear gripped me as I plummeted downward. The ground came flying up at me and—

“ _Ow_!”

I was lying on the floor next to my bed. What on God’s green earth was I doing there? Ordinarily the reason was that I was as tight as an owl, but not a drop had passed since our exertions.

My answer came in the form of a sleepy snort from the bed. A long, muscular arm hung over the side. Sitting up, my back gave a twinge. Jeeves was sprawled out across the entire width of my bed.

“I say! Jeeves, wake up!”

His response was another snort, and burying his head under a pillow. Really, the man liked burrowing as much as a rabbit.

“Jeeves—Jeeves—damn it all!” I grabbed his arm and pulled. “JEEVES!”

“Hmm?” Jeeves removed the pillow from his head and yawned. He looked around, perplexed. “Sir?”

“Down here, you big galoot!”

Instantly Jeeves was next to me, helping me up and onto the bed. For the first time, I beheld Jeeves as God made him, and I owed God a great deal of thanks and a gift hamper from Fortnum & Mason while I was at it.

“Are you hurt? What happened?”

“You happened,” I retorted. “You pushed me out of my own bed.”

“Oh! Forgive me, sir, it has been many years since I slept in a large bed.”

“Not large enough.” I climbed back on top of the bed, pulling the bedclothes over my nudity.

“Would you care for some tea, and some breakfast?”

“Yes and yes. I've worked up quite the appetite!" I gave him a quick kiss on the lips. Since I was hungry, delectable as Jeeves was, I wanted eggs and bacon and toast. More carnal delights would take place later in the afternoon.

Jeeves’s teal dressing gown was neatly folded on a chair. He drew it on, tied the sash, then shimmered out to the kitchen.

I fell back, a bruised but happy Wooster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moray Firth is an inlet of the North Sea, near Inverness, Scotland. It is one of the most important places to observe dolphins and whales.
> 
> "All universal moral principals are idle fantasies" is a quote from the Marquis de Sade.  
> "Nietzsche is fundamentally unsound" is a quote from the first Jeeves story, "Jeeves Takes Charge".
> 
> "I shifted, and my back pressed against something...  
> Solid, warm and shifting." -this is a callback to Chapter One


	21. Pillow Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bertie attempts to learn about Jeeves's great love.
> 
> Many, many thanks to Wotwotleigh, whose sage counsel and keen eye help no end!

When Jeeves returned with the breakfast tray, he was wearing his green apron...and nothing else. The saucy minx!

“ _Hang_ the breakfast!”

The man has lightning reflexes, I mean to say! He placed the tray on the bedside table before I pounced on him like a _Panthera tigris_ pouncing on a giant eland. A particularly scrumptious giant eland, I might add, who was most amenable to being pounced on, which I imagine elands in the wild would be far less cheerful about.

 

Two hours later two contented men lay sprawled on the Wooster bed. I took a sip of cold tea.

“I say, I’m bally exhausted. Are you?”

“I feel some fatigue, sir.”

I was delighted that this nature’s nobleman could actually be tired out by the young master. Would wonders never cease? “I know you want to be called Jeeves, which is fine and dandy by yours truly. But I’d like you to call me Bertie.”

“No, sir.”

“But it’s my name.”

“No, sir.”

“See here, I’m—“ I was about to say that I was his employer. But that would be the worst and bally un- _preux_ thing one could possibly say. “All right. Bertram?”

Jeeves’s left eyelid twitched. The man was severely displeased. “I will try, sir—Bertram.” He started to climb out of the bed.

“Hold on!” I grabbed his thigh and squeezed it. “You are staying right here, my man.”

“Si--Bertram, it is unconscionably late. I must start my work.”

“For now your work is staying here with young Wooster, so that I might sleep draped across you.”

He pretended to protest, but sank down on the bed, lying on his back. “Very good, _sir_.” It seemed to me that was intended to let me know that being called ‘Bertram’ was not to be a feature of our relationship going forward. _Oh, well,_ I thought, _it will keep things simple_. As planned, I draped myself across his magnificent barrel chest.  Jeeves stroked my hair as I slipped into deep sleep.

 

When next I awoke, I was alone. Jeeves could be heard doing Jeeves things. Not that one can hear Jeeves dusting, or, for that matter, doing nearly anything else. But he was hoovering the carpet. Ordinarily he would have waited until I had gone out to run such a noisy machine. But at the rate matters were progressing, I couldn’t envision leaving the flat for any earthly reason, not even to go to my tailor’s.

I pulled on the old dressing gown and went out, where I found him moving the piano bench so that he could continue to clean the carpet.

“Hullo, Jeeves!” I caroled.

He straightened up and once again become the usual Jeeves. Except for the glowing eyes and slight hitch to one upper lip. He switched off the machine.

“Good afternoon, sir.”

“There’s no reason to stand up on my account, old thing,” I said cheerfully, leaning in for a kiss. To my surprise, he stepped away from me.

“Sir, as much as I would enjoy kissing you, it concerns me that we might become too comfortable expressing affection and put ourselves in danger. It has happened to other men I know.”

“Oh, come now, one quick maidenly peck!” I said, and did just that. In a flash we were wrapped around each other, our mouths doing the tongue tango.

“Sir,” Jeeves gasped into my ear, “this is what concerns me. _Please_ let go.”

“Not until you agree to come back into the bedroom and take your clothes off.” As an added incentive, I turned my head and licked quickly behind his ear.

In a matter of seconds we were back in my bedroom and naked. I don’t know how the man does it, I truly don’t.

 

 

Some time later, I nestled against him, careful to be three inches away from the edge of the bed, lest I make the acquaintance of the floor again. I was tucked under Jeeves’s arm, my head resting on his shoulder, our legs entwined.

“Jeeves...”

“Sir?” His voice rumbled in his chest. Dashed pleasant.

“Tell me this...when did you start having naughty thoughts about this man lying here in sweet repose? Did you always feel this way? If you did, why didn’t you tell me?”

“I did not, sir. I admired you as one does a painting or a beautiful vase. An _objet d ‘art_ , not a person. It has been a pleasure to dress you and undress you, but I felt no stirrings until I saw you and Miss Beryl sharing a bed. As you pointed out, you had never brought anyone to the flat. That—“ he paused. “It caused a sea change in how I regarded you. After I watched you and Miss Beryl that morning as you lounged here, and after you returned to the bedroom, I found myself thinking about you in bed. With me.” He shifted.  From where I was lying, I saw straight down his torso, to his paunch, the hair on his—his—you know, where the manly bits are—and his softened todger. “Then when we danced—each time it became more difficult to control myself.”

“You’re telling _me_!” I kissed his warm shoulder. “Beryl told me you, um, ah...how can I put this politely, ah, had turned your attentions Wooster-ward. I didn’t believe her until you kissed me at the Pink Slipper.”

“Miss Beryl is a keenly observant young lady, sir.” His long fingers played with my hair.

“Bertram!”

“ _Bertram_.” He said my name with the same air of disdain he reserved for the fruitiest of my socks.

“I say, it’s a perfectly good name! If my parents thought it good enough to grace me with it, it should be good enough for you.”

“My apologies, sir, but I feel more comfortable using your honorific.”

“Blast.” Well, I wasn’t going to demand the stubborn ox to use my name. We were already on thin ice, being lovers as master and man. “Have it your own way.  For me, every time we did that bally Night and Day wheeze, I got more hot and bothered. By the time we got to the dance floor, I would have been more than delighted to have you right there. If it hadn’t meant making a public spectacle of ourselves and leading to god-knows-what consequences, I mean to say, I’m not an idiot, Jeeves, I know we have to keep this between us, and when I say between us—“

Jeeves silenced me by pulling me upward into an earth-shattering kiss. I was gasping when we pulled apart.

“I say, you’re making up for lost time most splendidly! How long has it been since you—er—you and me, you know, well, not _me_ , we’ve only just started, and it’s bally delicious and all, but who was before me, you know that I know about your vow. Jeeves, why did you take that vow in the first place? What woman broke your heart so bally hard that you forswore the wonders of the sins of the flesh?  She must have been some pumpkins.”

“It was not a woman, sir. It was a man.” Jeeves looked at me. “My interest has only been in men. I am not like you. Women do not appeal to me.”

“ _Oh_...” Well, that certainly put a different complexion on things!

“If I may take the liberty, sir, I would prefer not to speak of it.” He was returning to his valet tone. This would not do!

“You’re returning to your valet tone. This will not do, Jeeves!  I shall put your lost love out of my mind.” Although I knew it would gnaw at me the same way a monkey gnaws at a corncob at a Buddhist temple, I wasn’t going to push my luck. “Have you had other lovers, or was he the only one, then?”

Jeeves sighed. “No, sir. I have had other lovers. In my twenties I had an understanding with a man much like yours with Miss Beryl. He was a member of the aristocracy. Our understanding lasted five years before he left England for the continent.” Jeeves had a small smile. “Both of us could do what we wanted, and take our pleasure with each other when we wished. I consorted with other men, as did he. It was during that time that I learned how much one needs to be cautious. We were discreet and no one ever knew.”

“What became of him?”

“One would presume he is still on the continent, sir.”

“He can bloody well stay on the continent!” My vehemence surprised me. Nobody else was going to touch _my_ Jeeves!

My Jeeves? How had he gone from being Jeeves to being my Jeeves? I mean, he was my Jeeves in the sense that he was my man, but now he was not only my man, he was my _man_ , if you take my meaning. I was stunned. Even with Beryl, young Wooster had been fine with whomsoever she saw fit to frolic with. I didn’t want Jeeves to frolic with anybody but myself. He was most certainly _my_ frolicker!

Was I developing the tender pash for Jeeves?

 Jeeves raised himself up on one elbow. “I would much prefer to concentrate on the present, sir.” He slowly ran his finger down my side, making me shiver in the nicest way. I decided to take leave of the present and dip my toe in the future. I took a deep breath, heart beating faster.

“And me, Jeeves? I believe I might be developing the tender pash for you. I’ve never been in love, you know. But—I’ve never felt like _this_. All dizzy like there are balloons in my chest and swirling flowers where my brainpan should be and so, so happy!” I turned a headlamp-bright smile his way.

Oh, dear, the future did not seem at all like it wanted to be known, instead it wanted to change its address and quietly steal out of town in the dead of night.

Jeeves’s face suddenly became...Jeeves’s face. Unreadable, don’t you know. Blank. As devoid of life as the Sahara, and as inhospitable. His legs untangled from mine as he moved away on the bed.

“I am afraid I cannot return your feelings, sir.”

Everything stopped moving. I couldn’t breathe. I stared past Jeeves’s head at the wall. When I had agreed to that wallpaper? Certainly before Jeeves—

Everything started moving again. “I beg your pardon, Jeeves?”

“I cannot return your feelings, sir.”

“ _Can_ not or _will_ not?” My lungs were wrapping themselves around each other.

He looked caught and suddenly shook his head. “I _can_ not return your feelings. Your affections are changeable. Your association with Miss Beryl was the longest I have observed during the two years I have been in your employ. If I did return your feelings, I would be in constant fear of the day you decided to leave me aside to find another.”

“But I’m not going to do that!” I protested. “Bertram Wooster has never given his heart to anybody!” I sighed with frustration. “You know, you just told me you’ve done the same thing! Affairs that are ina—ins—what word am I looking for, Jeeves?”

“Inconsequential, sir.”

“Inconsequential! Unimportant.”

“Exactly my point, sir. If I may speak frankly, you are fickle.” Jeeves slid out of the bed and stood. Even though he was starkers, he had his uniform on. “It would be for the best if we end this now and spare ourselves suffering.”

“Oh.”

“Will you require anything else, sir?”

“No,” I said, unable to move.

“Very good, sir. I will draw your bath and return to my room to change into my clothes.” And then I was alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A giant eland is a large spiral-horned antelope.


	22. I Want To Be Bad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bertie makes a new friend and reunites with an old one.
> 
> Please comment! I promise to respond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some words at the end "borrowed" from Stephen Fry, with attribution.

When next Jeeves streamed into my bedroom, I had been going for the All-England championship for staring at the ceiling and did not appreciate being interrupted. Particularly not by the blighter who’d turned me down like a bedspread.

“Dinner will be ready at precisely quarter to eight. Does that suit?”

Since Jeeves always served dinner at precisely quarter to eight, the keen (if slightly bleary at present) Wooster brain knew he was attempting discern how I was handling the blow he’d given me.

“Uh...” I rolled over, stiff from lying in one place for so long. “No. It does not suit. I am dining out. Call the Princess Theater, leave a message for Beryl Dixon. Tell her I shall call for her after the show.”

“Sir?” Jeeves’s eyes widened a smidgen. “Do you think that is wise?”

“Wiser than letting emotions flourish in, ah, whatever sort of garden emotions _don’t_ flourish in. Which is here. I mean the flat, not this room. Or maybe I do mean this room. Lay out my glad rags, I’m going dancing. As Fred Astaire this time.”

Jeeves might have been about to say something, but the doorbell rang. He flowed out and answered the door.

Bingo Little came blustering into the apartment, straight into my bedroom.

“Bertie!” he exclaimed, then stopped.  “Why are you in bed at this hour?”

“I was taking a short nap.”

“With no pajamas on?”

“I was hot.”

“It’s winter.”

“Quite.”

“Quite.” Bingo gave me a confused look. He turned and shut the bedroom door.

“Bertie, I need your help most desperately.”

Making certain that the lithesome Wooster form was covered by the bedclothes, I sat up. “Let me guess. You’re in love. _Again_.”

“I say! You don’t have to be so—so—

“Who’s got you mulling on Astarte this time?”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know, actually. It sounded good. So, the tender goddess?”

Bingo drew himself up. “Bertie, you wound me,” he said. “Your cynicism has no place where true love is concerned. Phyllis Neville-Elliot is the most wondrous creature you have ever laid your eyes on.”

“And you want me to send for Jeeves,” I said resignedly. “You always want me to send for Jeeves. _Everybody_ wants me to send for Jeeves.  Very well, laddie—“

“No, I don’t want you to send for Jeeves. I need your help.”

Time stood still. There was an earthquake in California, a monsoon in India, a tornado in Kansas, all while I sat in bed and goggled at Bingo.

“Me...?” I managed once the earth had stopped shaking and the rain dried up. There was still a breeze in Kansas. “Not...Jeeves?”

“Phyllis’s older brother is awfully keen to join the Drones. I need you to sponsor him. You’re going to meet him tonight. Put something on and let’s go. He’s waiting for us there.”

“Right-ho! Go have a cocktail whilst I attend to my toilette!”

 

Wallace Neville-Elliot was quite a jolly chap. The hunting fishing type, all shoulders and teeth and heartiness. Dashed handsome as well, with eyes that crinkled in the corners, a bold nose and white-blond hair. I noted he was closer to my age than Jeeves.

The Neville-Elliots owned a large pile near Cheshire. Bored with country living, as who with any sense wouldn’t be, Wallace had betaken himself to London and a flat in Mayfair. His sister Phyllis was visiting. One fine afternoon Wallace and Phyllis walked in one direction on Upper Charlton Street, and Bingo walked in the opposite direction on Upper Charlton Street, and when they collided and the dust settled, Bingo was hopelessly infatuated with the Neville-Elliot beazel and determined that the banns should be read. However, Wallace felt he needed an _entrée_ into London society, and that belonging to the Drones would offer him that very _entrée_.  

“Bertie Wooster!” Wallace exclaimed when we were introduced, giving me a hearty handshake. “How d’you do? I’ve been wanting to meet you!”

“You have?”

He guffawed.

“We haven’t met, but I’ve seen you.”

“He and Phyllis were my guests at the Pink Slipper,” Bingo chimed in. “Oofy’s birthday party!”

“You were splendid, Bertie, splendid! A perfect Ginger Rogers!”

“Thank you, Wallace, it’s kind of you to say so.” I blushed and dug my toe in the metaphorical sand.

“Call me Wally.”

“I knew you old carrots would hit it off!” Bingo caroled. “How’s that scrumptious brunette you were with? She’s a pipterino—“ he glanced at Wally. “Not as much of a pipterino as Phyllis, old man.” 

Wally smiled, showing a lot of teeth. “Don’t worry, Bingo, I won’t tell Phyllis.  You’re a lucky man, Wooster!”

“That I am,” I said, with a sort of glazed chuckle.

Bingo lead us to the smoking room to partake a snifter or three. Wally turned out to be highly entertaining company. He was well-traveled and had many absorbing tales to tell of helling around various countries. If I hadn’t just given my heart to an ungrateful valet, we could have had some fun. The way his peepers traversed the supple Wooster corpus let me know in no uncertain terms that he thought I was even more of a pipterino than Beryl.

It was with a small measure of regret that I bid Wally and Bingo farewell for the nonce and headed off to the Princess Theater.

 

 

My regrets increased as I sat across from aforementioned pipterino at the Savoy. Beryl was delectable in pink chiffon and beads that set off her dark brown hair. The gown was short enough to draw some raised eyebrows as we were escorted to our table. But it showed off her bally marvelous legs to advantage, so the eyebrows could raise themselves to the penthouse for all young Bertram cared.

But she chewed a rosy lip. Dark penciled eyebrows were drawn together, the porcelain brow ever so slightly furrowed. There was a rum air about her.

“Beryl,” I said, “there is a rum air about you. Give.”

She stared down at the _asparagus vinaigrette_ as if it had said something opprobrious about her mother. “Why does Gerald have to be working with Noel Coward?” she burst out.

“Is that a riddle? Does the answer have something to do with cows?”

Her gaze flipped up to me. “Bertie, don’t be stupid. It’s unbearable, I tell you. Every night he jaws on about what _Noel_ said, what _Noel_ did, what a genius _Noel_ is, what a stupendous director...I may as well be living with Noel Coward!”

“That wouldn’t be so bad, would it? Noel Coward is famous for his wit—“

“That’s not what I mean.” She stabbed at the asparagus in a way that told me I could well be the next vegetable on the end of that salad fork. “I would pay any price to hear Gerald talk about _anything_ else!” She lowered her voice. “I am desperate enough to ask him about _his relatives_.”

“Good lord, woman!”

Beryl put a delicate hand over her eyes. “I can’t wait until the damn play opens, Bertie. But if it’s a hit, Gerald will never stop nattering about—“ her expression became simpering—“darling Noel. God help me, sweet, I hope it’s a flop! Or I might just thwack Gerald with a rubber chicken filled with marbles!”

I put a hand on hers—the one that rested on the table, not the one over her eyes. “Beryl, Wooster understands. He too has been savagely torn apart by Life’s cruel talons.”

She lowered her hand. “Jeeves?”

“Jeeves.”

“What about Eric?”

“Jeeves threw him over for me.”

Her mouth opened in a small “o”. “I’m blowed! Jeeves broke his vow? How did you do it?”

“You did it, Beryl. After all of that blundering around as Fred and Ginger, our base appetites could no longer be denied. So we stopped denying them.” I sipped a moody martini.

“Bertie! Congratulations! That’s bloody marvelous!”

I held up a hand. “No, young Beryl, it is not bloody marvelous. Everything was oojah-cum-spiff. But then it smacked me in the mazzard that I was falling in love with the cove.”

“You? In love?” Her expression of disbelief was most unflattering.

“When informed of same, the big galoot bunged his heart into the icebox and locked it. Told me I’m fickle. Me, fickle!”

“You are fickle, dearest.”

I was furious. “I am not fickle! The tender hand of love has slapped my heart in the face, curled around it and crushed it to a pulp! If a heart had a face, that is.”

“Love’s rotten,” Beryl agreed.

As if in agreement, the Savoy Hotel Orpheans played “My Baby Turned Me Down”. As always, I wondered: why call themselves orpheans? Why not orphans, or Orpheums or opiums or...

We commiserated over the next two courses, martinis, a bottle of champagne and several turns around the dance floor. As the evening wore on, we both became quite convinced the men we loved weren’t worth a penny’s worth of our time. “We’re too good for ‘em,” Beryl slurred as I poured her some more champagne. The darling girl didn’t deserve to play second fiddle to Noel Coward. Not a lovely _demoiselle_ built along Jean Harlow lines, with bally marvelous legs. Why had I thrown her over—no, she threw me over—oh, what did it matter? We were here, the music was intoxicating, we were intoxicated, and her perfume drifted into my nostrils and was bally intoxicatable, if that's the word I want.

The female vocalist started singing “I Want To Be Bad”.

_If it's naughty to rouge your lips_  
_Shake your shoulders and shake your hips_  
_Let a lady confess, I want to be bad!_

_When you're learning what lips are for_  
_And it's naughty to ask for more_  
_Let a lady confess, I want to be bad!_

 “He’s not worth it,” she muttered into my shoulder as we again took to the dance floor.

“No, Gerald must have bats in the bell tower to neglect a pipterino as yourself, darling,” I murmured into her hair.

“Jeeves is a fool,” she murmured back. “A bloody fool.”

_If it's naughty to vamp the men_  
_Sleep each morning till after ten_  
_Then the answer is yes, I want to be bad!_

 “It’s in poor taste, by Jove, utterly poor taste to gabble on about Noel Coward when he’s got you.”

“Please, don’t say that name again?”

“Noel Coward?”

“I asked you not to say that name again!”

“Oh!” I hiccuped. “Say no more. Noel Coward’s name shall not pass my errant lips henceforth. I refuse to even mention Noel Coward. Noel Coward is henceforth banned from—OW! Why did you stomp on my foot?”

“You say that—that man’s name again, I’ll bring up Sandy Simpson, so there!”

“Beryl!”

Her eyes shone and she laughed. “Turnabout is fair play, Bertie!”

I gave her a dreamy, drunken smile. “I’d forgotten how well you dance.” I let myself draw her slightly closer. After a smattering of applause, the band swung into the next song.

_Say, you wouldn't call a man a two-time man_  
_If he two-timed one time._  
_You couldn't call a man a fisherman,_  
_That is, if he just fished one time._

No, you wouldn’t call a man a two-time man if he only did it once. This singer chap was on to something. Beryl and I had shared a bed enough times that we could call it a reunion of old friends.

“I say, Beryl, we’re old friends, aren’t we?”

“Of course we’re old friends, you silly man.”

“Perhaps two old friends could have...could be...”

_You know, it ain't what you do, it's the times that you do it;_  
_If you two-time once there ain't a darn thing to it._  
_But you couldn't call a man a two-time man_  
_If he just two-timed one time._

 Besides, wasn’t I footloose and fancy-free? Even though I didn’t want it to be, my soul was my own, dash it all.

“Beryl,” I whispered into her shell-like ear, “do you remember how topping it was when we went out dancing?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, a hint of a smile in her voice. “It was grand.”

“Everything was grand.”

“It was, Bertie. _So_ grand."

"You were absolutely...grand."

"You were grand, too."

“I say, I have the grandest idea. Why don’t I, uh, take a room here tonight? We can have a bottle of champagne sent up, talk about old times, nothing improper, two old friends remembering the good old days.”

“That would be grand!”

_Now, you couldn't call me a two-time man, could you?_  
_If I two-timed one time?_  
_Naw, you couldn't, that wouldn't be right,_  
_To call me a two-time man just for once, just that one time._

 

 

Beryl’s kiss was as delicious as I remembered. We started kissing in the lift—how wonderful to be able to kiss in public and nobody batting an eye! Smirking, perhaps, but not batting an eye! They weren’t Jeeves’s lips, but they were soft and full. Dash it, I would not think of Jeeves again. He didn’t deserve me! Fickle, was I? I’d show him who’s fickle!

We continued to kiss as we followed the bellhop to our room. He did not seem surprised in the least that we had no luggage.

Once in the room, we fell drunkenly on the bed. Beryl started laughing, as did I. We were being naughty and wrong and terrible in general and it was _legal._ The hotel detective wouldn’t bother us unless we set something on fire. And perhaps not even then.

I had missed darling Beryl and her bally marvelous legs. And she seemed to have missed young Bertram and his not so marvelous legs as well. As the room spun around, clothes were torn off, soft breasts fondled and sucked, ears nibbled, backs caressed and hair mussed. It was demonstrated anew that the design of the lower Beryl was exactly right for ingress by the lower Bertie, and we both enjoyed it tremendously. In fact, a great deal of loud gasping and moaning occurred. And again, it was _legal_ , which only added fuel to the metaphorical fire.

Jeeves and Gerald be damned! We continued being legal until we both passed out.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From _Moab Is My Washpot_ , Stephen Fry's first volume of memoir: "For my sixteenth birthday, she gave me...a damned good fuck, the memory of which is with me still. [ ] I could not, afterwards, deny that the design features of the vagina, so far as texture and enclosing elasticity were concerned, seemed absolutely made for the job--ideally suited, in fact."
> 
> The Savoy Hotel Orpheans had been the house band at the Savoy Hotel from 1923-1927. In 1931 pianist Carroll Gordon and saxophonist Howard Jacobs re-formed the band.
> 
> Helen Kane was a popular singer of the 1920s, and the model for cartoon character Betty Boop. She later sued Max Fleischer charging unfair competition and wrongful appropriation. She lost the lawsuit.
> 
> Don Redman, arranger, clarinetist and saxophone player, was one of the early creators of "swing". He formed a band from 1931 to 1940, and thereafter was primarily a music arranger.  
> 


	23. Face Powder On The Soup And Fish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bertie has a horrendous hangover and has to deal with the consequences. And meets Bingo's latest pash.
> 
> Please comment. I promise to respond. However, I will not get face powder on your soup and fish.

“Oh, Bertie,” I heard Beryl moan next to me in bed. “Oh, _Bertie_.”

“I heartily concur, old thing,” I groaned. My head throbbed like a thing that throbs.  There was a sour taste in my mouth, and my stomach wasn’t going to be my friend any time soon. Our clothing was strewn about the room as if a suitcase had exploded. From the miserable undertone in her voice, I deduced Beryl was as badly off as young Wooster.

“What have we _done_?”

“If  you don’t remember, I’m bally well not going to tell you.”

“I blame Noel Coward,” she groaned.

“I blame Jeeves,” I chimed in.

“I blame you, Bertie. You plied me with champagne and took advantage of me.”

“Took advantage of you?” I snorted. “Beryl, old girl, one might say you took advantage of me.”

“Who suggested that old friends have a reunion—bloody hell, we took advantage of each other.” Beryl rolled on to her back. “If Gerald finds out...oh, darling, darling, I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry!”

“Why are you apologizing to the chandelier?”

She gave me a hard poke in the ribs. “Don’t be stupid, Bertie, not now.” She sat up, gasping. “My head!” She rubbed her scalp. “Call down for some aspirin. Thirty aspirin should do it. Gerald doesn’t have to know about this. My roommates will cover for me. Poor Gerald!” She looked down at me. “Bertie, what are you going to tell Jeeves?”

My stomach tightened and my head decided that I hadn’t had enough punishment and levered up the pain. Jeeves...what right did Jeeves have to disapprove of my conduct?

“What right does Jeeves has to disapprove of my conduct? He refused me. He said I was fickle...oh, blast.” Lying in a hotel bed with Beryl did not bolster my argument. I reached for the telephone and called down to the desk for ice water, aspirin and breakfast.

“Bertie, why did you ask me to come out with you?” Beryl ran her hand across my bare back. “What were you trying to prove? That Jeeves is right?”

“Beryl, he’s going to hand me my hat,” I groaned.

“You’re his employer, he can’t hand you your hat.”

“Dash it, he can hand in his portfolio. What does that mean, anyway, handing someone your portfolio? Whatever a portfolio is, he shall hand it to me and no mistake.”

There was a knock on the hotel room door. Beryl hid in the bathroom as the waiter rolled in the breakfast cart, complete with a pitcher of ice water, a bottle of aspirin, and tea. I heard the shower running. When I took the lid off the plate of eggs and kippers, it was a brutal reminder of how I felt without one of Jeeves’s restoratives. Not to put too fine a point on it, the breakfast almost made the pleasure of meeting my dinner.

 

 

Leaving Beryl so she could hie herself out after a goodish bit of time, it was a hollowed out Bertie who staggered into the lobby to pay the bill. The clerk gave me a salacious wink.

“I beg your pardon, young man?” I snapped.

He gave me an exaggerated look of innocence. “Yes, sir?”

“See here, no insolence, my good fellow!"

I turned, my innards sloshing, only to see Bingo Little making his way through the throng. Bingo saw me and grinned. “Bertie! You cad!”

“Bingo. What do you mean, addressing me in that fashion?” With a horrified realization I looked down and saw that I was still in the soup and fish!

“You’re wearing evening clothes, and you look like you were dredged out of a river."

“Bingo! I’m shocked at such a supposition! As if I would—“

“Bertie, old man, there’s lip rouge on your collar and face powder on your jacket and scarf.”

“You wound me, old fruit. I am wearing lip rouge and face powder because I have gone on the stage.”

“Pull the other one!” Bingo laughed. “I’ve seen you in lip rouge and face powder, remember?” Suddenly his face did the most extraordinary set of contortions, from surprise to rapturous love to panic. “Good God, it’s Phyllis! I can’t be seen with you, in your condition!” Before he could bolt, a sweet voice rang out:

“Richard! Good morning!”

A tall, slender young woman with a great amount of blonde hair in braids around her head approached. Fortunately, she looked at Bingo, who had turned quite pale, with affection.

“Good morning, Phyllis. This is—a mere acquaintance, Bertie Wooster.”

“I say! We were at school together!” Nevertheless, I doffed my top hat to the young lady, and again remembered I was in evening clothes. “Oh! If you’ll pardon me, I must be getting home. These early morning tea dances, of all things, requiring one to dress for the evening before nine in the morning, why, it’s quite the fashion here in London, the women wear evening finery, well. Quite.”

“You’re _Bertie_ Wooster!” Phyllis exclaimed. “Wally has been talking about you non-stop!”

“There can’t be much to say, I’m a vigorously uninteresting chap.”

“Wally was right, you’re so funny!” She gave a sweetly tinkling laugh.

Bingo took her arm, glaring at me. _Don’t you lay a hand on my woman, you blighter_ , his glare said.

Since I wasn’t about to, I bunged back a haughty _I have no intention of doing so, you clot._

He responded with, _I know what you’re like! In a hotel lobby! In evening clothes!_

_You wound me!_

Unaware of our silent yet wrathful exchange, Phyllis announced, “We must all have dinner tonight! Richard, could you make the arrangements? Bertie, I’m ever so pleased to meet you!”

With a mumbled phrase and another tip of the topper, I hot-footed it out of the lobby, wondering what on earth I would tell Jeeves.

 

 

The door opened before I could turn the doorknob. Jeeves stood within.

“Good morning, sir,” he said frostily. Despite his opaque demeanor, anger radiated off the man. One could have baked scones on his head.

“What ho, Jeeves!” I cried with false heartiness. “What ho! Lovely morning, what? Sun’s hanging in the blue, blue sky, fresh air, it would be pastoral if it were spring but it’s almost winter so the populace is wearing coats. They’d freeze if they didn’t, wouldn’t they? Can’t be too careful, people catching their death hither, thither and yon, what? What?”

Jeeves took my scarf, coat and top hat, eyes flicking over their disheveled and face-powdered state. “Indeed, sir. I trust Sir spent a pleasant evening with Miss Dixon.”

“Um.”

“Does sir desire breakfast?”

Oh, dear. I couldn’t look at him. For one thing, an inconvenient feeling of lust came over me. At the least having feelings of lust was godawful timing. Jeeves would sock me in the onion if I tried anything. “No. I’m not hungry. A bath and one of your restoratives is required.” The top of my right black patent leather shoe became an object of fascination. “Jeeves, I am terribly sorry. If it hadn’t been for Noel Coward, the whole thing would not have happened.”

“Sir has nothing to apologize for. I shall draw Sir's bath and mix a restorative.”

“Jeeves, don’t call me ‘sir’.”

“It is my duty to call Sir ‘sir’, sir.” He wafted away, leaving me choking with guilt.

The restorative cleared my brain and returned self to feeling normal, except for the misery lodged in my chest. I took an unhappy bath, ignoring my rubber duck. Ducky didn’t look the least bit sympathetic. I dunked him and held him under for a minute until I relented. It wasn’t Ducky’s fault I was a louse.

Jeeves had laid out a subdued blue pinstripe suit. He turned, a dark blue tie draped over his arm. It wasn’t like him to have my tie match my suit so closely. “Jeeves, it’s not like you to have my tie match my suit so closely.”

“Would Sir prefer another tie?”

“Stop calling me Sir, blast it!”

“No, sir. If Sir wishes me to choose another, may I suggest the deep maroon.”

“Jeeves, I said I’m sorry. Mine were the actions of a scoundrel."

He turned, expressionless. “How Sir chooses to spend Sir’s time has nothing to do with me, sir.”

“Dash it, Jeeves, stop addressing me that way.”

“Will Sir be dining in tonight? If not, I shall need to press another suit of evening clothes. The suit Sir wore last night smells quite strongly of perfume and is stained with a woman’s face powder. It will require extensive cleaning.”

I decided the best offense was a defense—or is it the other way round? In any event, I held up a hand. “Before you say anything further, my good man, be aware that last night was _your_ fault. You turned me down.”

He moved closer to do up my cuffs. Although he was expressionless, I could jolly well feel that he was like a pot of boiling water and the lid was about to blow off. “It has proven to be good judgment on my part, sir. If I may speak frankly, much to my regret, Sir has proven to be inconstant. If you will excuse me, sir.”

He drifted out. I sat heavily on the bed, not caring that I sat directly on the damned blue tie. Ties be damned. I’d gone and smashed up the best thing that had ever happened to me.

Little did I know I was going to smash it up even more, perhaps beyond repairing.


	24. Heartbreak and The Fox Trot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the unthinkable happens
> 
> Note: slightly edited

Luncheon was stiff and uncomfortable. Jeeves continued to call me “Sir” with an intonation that implied I wasn’t even worthy of being called, “you sap”. The food was as ashes in my mouth. Jeeves had might been irate enough to sprinkle actual ashes into the _vichyssoise_.

It was some time later, after a telephone call from Bingo, that I found Jeeves in the dining room, polishing the table. His sleeves were rolled up. I gazed at his forearms, feeling a tad silly at how much the sight affected me. “Don’t be hard on yourself, Bertram,” I told myself. “In your father’s day, seeing a woman’s ankle was cause for howling at the moon.”

Jeeves straightened up, cloth in hand. “Sir?” You might recall that early in the tale I had claimed Jeeves to be as cuddly as a statue of Julius Caesar. Right now a statue of Julius Caesar would have seemed as cuddlesome as Shirley Temple bursting into "On The Good Ship Lollipop" compared to the man standing before me.

Nervously, I clapped my hands together, plastered the ripest of smiles on the dial and launched into my spiel.

“Jeeves, I just spoke with young Bingo. We are forming a small party for dinner at Quag’s, and after a no doubt sumptuous feast, taking in a show at a bohemian nightspot! You have heard the name. The Ripe Cherry! I might even meet Miss Flambé, who so graciously lent me her gown for our performance! So I shan’t be home until the sun peeps its head over the dark horizon. Speaking of my triumph as Ginger Rogers, there are any number of invitations to perform as Fred and Ginger, don’t you know. We should decide which ones deserve to be graced by our presence, eh?”

He gave a small cough. “That will not be possible, sir.”

“Why ever not? Cramp in your leg? Perhaps a soak in a hot bathtub will ease the pain.”

“Sir, I regret to say that I must give notice, effective one week from today.”

I goggled at him, convinced that I misheard. “What—what did you say?”

“I must give my notice, sir.” He looked past me, at the black and white etching, “Master Harold And Hounds”. The ugly thing was a gift from Aunt Dahlia. As she was wont to visit the flat without notice, it was wise to keep it in sight.

“Jeeves! Tear your gaze away from Master Harold. What do you mean, you’re giving notice?”

“I am sorry, sir.” He bally well didn’t look sorry.

“You bally well don’t look sorry! I mean to say! By jingo! What on earth has brought this on? Last night with Beryl? Yes, it was a mistake. It shan’t happen again, I promise! I have risen on the stepping stones of my dead self! It was but the foolish urge of youth! I’m older now, and steadier.”

He gave an almost unnoticeable shake of the head. “Sir, as I feared, it is evident that the equilibrium of our lives has been irrevocably upset. It is in both of our best interests, sir.” Jeeves looked down at the polishing cloth, which he now held in both hands.

“Jeeves!” My brain wasn’t up to much else except repeating his name. “I say, Jeeves! _Jeeves_!” I quivered. I quailed. I—did something else that begins with q, dashed if I can remember. Whatever it was, I did it. And then some.

“My decision is final, sir.” He bent to his task, rubbing the table as if he was grinding wheat into flour. “Does Sir require anything else?”

“Of course I do!” I wanted to say. “I require you to stay here and kiss me as if a spaceship from Mars will crash into Parliament and lay waste to London imminently!”

But I didn’t. What came out of my mouth was:

“No! Sir does bally well _not_ require anything else!” I drew myself up in righteous wrath. “Then, be off! You don’t have to wait a week, if that’s what you want!”

“Very good, sir. I shall make my departure after I have found a suitable replacement.” He straightened up and looked at me with an expression I had as much luck reading as if it had been written in Aramaic.

“Well, Bertram has learned something today. Love is rot, sentiment is for giggling schoolgirls, and—and love is _rot_!” Head held high, I turned, bumped into the door-frame, suppressed an undignified yip of pain and withdrew.

 

 

Quaglino’s was bustling, the quality stuffing their mouths with fine cuisine and drink. All except this Wooster. Despite a flavorsome repast which included lashings of cocktails and champagne, I was sorrow-laden. Not even the orchestra tootling “My Canary Has Circles Under His Eyes” pulled me out of my slough of despond. Jeeves was leaving. No doubt he would inquire at the agency to see if an employer who loved Chopin and read hieroglyphics for kicks was seeking a manservant.

Sitting across from me, Phyllis and Bingo booed and killed—I mean, billed and cooed. He played with her fingers, staring tenderly at her big blue eyes. It was sickening.

However, Wally knew something was up, if only because it seemed likely an undertaker would soon sweep into Quag’s and take me off to be embalmed.

“Bertie, are you all right?”

I sighed. “Quite all right.”

His white blond eyebrows knitted together. “Don’t give me that, old man. You look like your best friend died.”

“Wally, thank you, but I’m all right. Shakespeare put it best. ‘I cannot tell what you and other men tumty tumty tum; but, for my single self, I had as like not be as something in something of such a thing as I myself.’” I patted his hand and managed a watery smile. Did he squeeze my fingers or did I imagine it? No matter, Jeeves was leaving and the world was now an empty _ombre chinoise_. I drew circles on the tablecloth with a despairing breadstick.

“Are you a sporting man?” Wally asked, changing the subject a tad obviously.

Startled, I pulled myself from the depths. “I enjoy a flutter now and then.”

“Who did you bet on in this year’s Ascot? I put a good bit on Felicitation.”

“He was 9-2, old man!”

Wally leaned back, grinning. “I made a packet. What about you, Bertie?”

“Don’t remind me,” I groaned. “Hyperion. The blighted horse won the Derby and all. Lost a fair amount of dosh.”

Wally slapped me on the back. “We’ll go this spring! I’ve always had great luck with horses. And you have to go to the Prix de l'Arc de Triomphe! I’ve never missed a year when we’re in France!”

“Yes, quite,” I said wanly, and turned back to my brooding. Jeeves had urged me to bet on Felicitation, but I ignored him. Goodness knows how much money he won, but he did look unusually chuffed for awhile. Thinking about Jeeves had me once again contemplating the tablecloth. What was I going to do without the man? Should I heave myself into the Thames with rocks filling my pockets?

Somewhere between the _Consommé madrilène frappe_ and the _Cote d’veau en papillote,_ Bingo tore his tender gaze away from Phyllis and leaned forward.

“I say, Bertie, don’t sit there with your mouth hanging open,” he whispered. “What’s the matter? Gotten yourself engaged again?”

I was about to confess that Jeeves had handed me his portfolio, whatever that meant. But that would lead to far too many awkward questions. “It’s—um—it’s Beryl, you see.”

“The tasty little tomato?”

I started to respond, but suddenly he was pounding me on the back and shaking my hand. “Well, you old dog!” He turned to our companions. “Wally, would you believe it? Bertie’s gone and gotten himself engaged to a chorus girl! Bertie, you of all people! I never thought I’d see the day!”

“I’m not like you,” I retorted. “I don’t belong to a love of the month—“ I was about to say “club”, but Bingo upended a glass of champagne in my lap.

Wally grinned and saluted me with a stalk of celery. “Congratulations, old man! After the way she smooched you at Prosser’s party, it doesn’t surprise me in the least!”

“Mr. Wooster, how romantic!” said Phyllis. She brought her hands together and tilted her head, looking at Bingo. “Isn’t it romantic, Richard?”

“Here! No! I only—“

“Here’s to Bertie and Beryl!” Bingo lifted a glass of champagne. “A toast! A toast to love!” His besotted gaze once again fell upon Phyllis, who besotted back at him. “A toast to the merging of two hearts and minds! A toast to _amour,_ as the French say!” He tossed down the grape, as did Wally and Phyllis.

Thank goodness Beryl wasn’t there. She would have favored us with a few choice expletives and biffed me with the champagne bottle.

“Bingo, cease in your felicitations,” I pronounced. “Stop reveling. Not only am I not engaged to Beryl, she has thrown me over for another man. Hence my visible lack of _joie de vivre_.”

Phyllis’s eyes widened. “That’s so sad! I saw her with you at the Pink Slipper. You looked so much in love! But it’s for the best, Bertie. You can’t marry someone who’s not of our sort.”

“Spot-on, young Phyllis. Everything was against our love, and well, the beazel didn’t have the inner fortitude to stand up against society. So I am alone.” I let my eyes wander listlessly over the throng around us.

“It’s for the best, old man,” said Wally, turning to me. “One can’t imagine what your family would say.”

I didn’t enlighten him that my nearest and dearest would be ecstatic if I got engaged to _anyone_ , chorus girl, countess, or invertebrate. Suddenly I realized I had been handed a perfect excuse for being down in the mouth.

“Let us speak of it no longer,” I said. “I shall mourn the demise of our love until the end of my days.”

“Buck up, old man,” Wally said heartily. “We’re off to the Ripe Cherry as soon as we’ve finished dinner! What a man needs is a _louche_ atmosphere, say I!” He gave me a broad wink.

 

 

The Ripe Cherry, was a noisy, smoky little _boite._ One gained entrance by giving the password. To my surprise, Wally knew the password ("Sandringham"), and we were led into the den of iniquity. Half the size of the Pink Slipper, it was filled to overflowing. Mostly it was the usual crowd, but here and there were men with men and women with women. I had been to a few pansy clubs, but nothing as _outré_ as the Ripe Cherry. Bertram was a bit uncomfortable, but also envious of the men, either dressed as men or women. What freedom! To be who you were, in semi-public, no less. These clubs lived under the shadow of the police, true. That added to the thrill, the underlying danger. But the rozzers had been leaving them alone, as long as there were some “legitimate” acts on the bill, such as trained dogs and acrobats. Not that some of the female impersonators weren’t acrobats.

“I love it!” Wally whooped. “The most beautiful women in London!”

“They’re men, you know.”

“I know that, Bertie! Can I help it if I like my men with a little make up on?” He gave me a funny little smile.

Bingo had the appearance of a minister's daughter at the lowest kind of beer hall. He gave me an incredulous look. “Why did you pick this club, Bertie? A wholesome girl like Phyllis shouldn’t be exposed to this element!”

“Bingo, don’t play the innocent with me. You go to the same kind of establishments, the only difference being that the entertainers are women.”

“That’s a very large difference. This isn’t—this isn’t—“

“Do shut your piehole, Bingo!” I snapped. “If you don’t want to be here, go home and read _Little Women_. We are here to have a jolly old time, and we cannot have a jolly old time with you carrying on.”

Bingo grudgingly sat back and dutifully shut his piehole. Phyllis’s map was split by an ear to ear smile, quite the opposite of her paramour. "It's delightful, Richard." She squeezed his hand. "Please try to enjoy it. For me."

That did it. Bingo stared adoringly at her. "I shall try, my tender goddess. For you. I shall try."

Onstage was a tall female impersonator in an red wig with orange tips, huge false eyelashes, and—the silver and white dress I’d worn at the Pink Slipper. This was the fabled Miss Flambé!

 _Masculine Women, Feminine Men,_  
_Which is the rooster, which is the hen?_  
_Sister is busy learning to shave,_  
_Brother just loves his permanent wave,_

 _Girls were girls and boys were boys when I was a tot,_  
_Now we don't know who is who or even what’s what._  
_Knickers and trousers, baggy and wide,_  
_Nobody knows who's walking inside._  
_Those Masculine Women, Feminine Men_

“I say, that’s the female impersonator who loaned me his dress!” I exclaimed.

Wally smiled. “You looked better in it than he does.”

“Tosh. She—he’s lovely.” One had to admire the sinuous way he—she—he—moved. Hands and hips in continuous motion, winking at the crowd. Rather Mae West, don’t you know.

 _You go and give your girl a kiss in the hall,_  
_But instead you find you're kissing her brother Paul._  
_Mama's got a sweater up to her chin,_  
_Papa's got a girdle holding him in._  
_Those Masculine Women, Feminine Men!_

Miss Flambé bowed to vigorous applause and swept off the stage. As he made his way through the crowd, he caught sight of me.

“Bertie Wooster!”

I stood and bowed, as did the other men at my table. Phyllis stared at the female impersonator with undisguised fascination.

“Miss Flambé, I presume?” I took his gloved hand and kissed it, deciding it was more appropriate to think of him as “her”. After all, she looked like a woman, was moving like a woman, and spoke like a woman.

“These are my friends, Richard Little, Phyllis and Wally Neville-Elliot.”

“Delighted to meet you,” she said

“You were simply marvelous!” Phyllis exclaimed. “Better than the performers I saw in Paris!”

I was startled, until I remembered that Wally hadn’t been the only Neville-Elliot traveling the world.

“Thank you, doll! Please, call me Flame.” She sat down and joined us for a drink. She raised an eyebrow at Wally. “Say, has anyone told you that you look like Gene Raymond?”

“No,” he said.

Flame batted her eyelashes at him. “There’s a first time for everything, dollface. That blond hair—it would take an ocean of bleach for me to achieve that color! I’m a brunette, don’t tell anybody, it’s my secret shame.”

“So, did you happen to catch our Terpsichore-an magic?” I sipped my whiskey, waiting for an avalanche of praise.

Flame made an exaggerated “unhappy” face. “I had to work. So, what brings you folks to our little hellhole?”

“We wanted to see the club for ourselves,” Wally said. Phyllis tugged his sleeve, and the three of them turned to watch the next act, a trained chimpanzee smoking a cigarette. Rather reminded me of Stilton Cheesewright.

“Bertie, honey,” Flame said, “Let’s have a butchers at your eek. Yes, you’d be as bona as a man or a woman.” She took my hand and lowered her voice. “So, are you an omme poloni?”

“Is that a foodstuff??”

Miss Flambé leaned in, and whispered, “Are you homosexual?”

I was startled, almost denied it, but then remembered who I was talking to. “No, no. I enjoy both.”

“Then you’re a bibi.”

“A what?”

“A _bi_ sexual. Not that many of you around. Who admit to it, I mean.” She gave me a knowing wink. The chimpanzee was now catching a ball. Perhaps I should sponsor it for the Drones as well as Wally. The cove, as it happened, turned back to me and Flame.

“I remember this dress!” Wally said. “Miss—what did you say your name was?”

“I told you, call me Flame!”

“ _You’re_ the one who lent Bertie the dress!” he said.

“Yes, and thank god for that costume mistress. It was a job cleaning it. You’re a dolly chicken, Bertie dear, but you sweat.”

“I beg your pardon!” I straightened up in righteous indignation. “I danced my heart out! It was an honest day’s—night’s—sweat! That benighted song has been carved into my brain. If the musicians started playing the bally thing I’d start dancing like Pavlov’s dog! Not that Pavlov’s dog danced, unless there’s another experiment we never heard of—“

“Bertie!” cried Wally. “Then you have to do it again!”

“Yes, do it again!” Phyllis chimed in.

“Ginger Rogers has hung up her dancing shoes.”

“Yes, do it again!” Bingo said, a gleam in his eye.

“No. Bertram is through wearing a dress.”

Miss Flambé grabbed my hands. “Oh, no you aren’t, Bertie! We’re getting you back up on that dance floor!”

With a strength I would not have given her credit for, she heaved me out of my chair and hustled me out, to the cheers and claps of my erstwhile friends. Traitors! Turncoats! Something that began with T!

I gibbered protests, pleading everything from chilblains to malaria, but Miss Flambé brooked no argument. After hauling me into her dressing room, she plucked a red beaded dress from the rack.

“You’ll wear this one.”

“I say, I’m not going to do it! _Je ne le ferai pas_!"

She put her hands on her hips, reminding me unpleasantly of Aunt Dahlia. “Bertie, haul up your socks. You _are_ going to do it. Those friends of yours will leave much bigger tips if you do.”

“But—but—oh, all right! But I don’t have a dancing partner.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll sing a few bars, take a bow, and get off. Leave everything to Miss Flambé.”

She did an even finer job of prettying up this Wooster than the girl back at the Silver Slipper; possibly because she knew all of the tricks of the trade. She adjusted the false bosom and hip padding like a professional—well, she was a professional. I was allowed to keep my shoes on, after dispensing with the silk socks and garters. After pulling a blonde wig on my head and clipping some large sparkly earrings on the shell-like, she escorted me to the edge of the stage.

“Now go out, look pretty, sing a few bars, take a bow, and you’re done,” she whispered. She gestured the orchestra leader over, and whispered to him. He nodded and went back to his place.

When a peppy dance duo named Zinc and Top finished, they swept off and the orchestra leader turned to the audience.

“And now, direct from the Pink Slipper—Ginger Rogers!”

“ _Ginger Rogers_?” I hissed.

“Don’t fret, Queen Mary's going to do a fan dance later on.”

I entered, blowing kisses to the audience, and curtseyed. The orchestra struck up “Night And Day”.

I struck a pose _ala_ Flame, hand on hip—

And forgot the lyrics.

Dash it, _Jeeves_ had always been the one to sing the bally song! I gaped like an amphibian while the intro came around again. And again.

And again.

I blew another kiss at the crowd, and hoped they wouldn't notice that I was continuing to pose as I bounced back toward the wings. Miss Flambe' gave me a hard shove. "Get back out there!" she said in a loud voice.

It got a nice laugh. Unfortunately, I wasn't looking for a nice laugh. Bertram wanted _out._

“Like the beat-beat-beat of the tom-tom, Miss Thing!” Miss Flambé called out, to a ripple of laughter.

“Oh, yes! Sorry, sorry! Let me try that again."

I struck the pose again.

 _"Like the beat-beat-beat of the tom-tom_ —“

As I sang, the Ginger Rogers of old came back. I belted the ditty out with plenty of pep, adding some hip bumps and rolling my eyes. I finished, took a bow and turned to walk offstage.

Before I could, a short man in white tie, tails and lip rouge appeared and took me in his arms. No, it was a woman dressed as a man, but with lip rouge and eyelash black. The audience cheered us on as we did a respectable fox trot around the dance floor. I even managed a twirl or two. Not as spectacular as our dance at the Pink Slipper, but this woman wasn’t Jeeves by a long shot.

There was a tap on my shoulder. “May I cut in?” It was Wally.

 

Irving Kaufman sings "Masculine Women, Feminine Men"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Queen Mary was the spouse of King George V. She reigned until the death of her husband in 1936, at which time Edward, the Duke of Windsor, took the throne. However, Edward abdicated and his brother Albert became King George VI. 
> 
> Quaglino's is a famous restaurant on Bury Street in London. It was highly fashionable in the 1930s and 40s, patronized by Evelyn Waugh, the Prince of Wales, and others. Leslie Hutchinson, one of the first popular black entertainers in Britain, became a regular performer at Quaglino's in the 1930s and 40s. In the 1950s, Queen Elizabeth II dined there, the first reigning British monarch to eat at a public restaurant.
> 
> "Bisexual" was coined in 1874. Originally it mean a hermaphrodite. By 1922 it had come to mean, "attracted to both sexes".


	25. The Wearing O' The Gravy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bertie gives lunch to Wally, Phyllis and Bingo. It does not go well.

If you knew what a bloomer I was about to commit, you’d grab me by the scruff of the neck and lock me in the pantry, like a dog whose idea of a good time is knocking over the kitchen waste bin and spreading the contents like confetti around the sitting room.

 “Good evening, sir,” Jeeves said, opening the door.

“Good evening, Jeeves!” I was swaying quite a bit, but I managed to stumble into the flat. He took my hat, coat and scarf so smoothly I wasn’t even aware of it.

“I trust your evening was pleasant, sir?”

Was I imagining things, or was my manservant thawing? The gaze was less censorious, the posture not quite as ramrod straight. It’s all a matter of fractions of inches with Jeeves. One might have said his posture was one tenth of an inch less ramrod.

“It was pleasant indeed, Jeeves,” I responded, bumping gently into the hat rack.

“Sir—“

I cut him off with a wave of the hand, which I still kick myself for. “A gay time was had by all, Jeeves, a gay time!”

“Sir—“

“The Ripe Cherry is ripe indeed, all right, all right!”

“Indeed, sir?” He leaned closer. Was he going to kiss me? Had he forgiven me? As his master, it was not proper to initiate the proceedings. His eyes were glowing, his lips were parting—our eyes met—I stopped breathing.

“Sir, what is on your face?”

“What? This? Makeup! I thought Miss Flambé had scraped it all off.” I couldn’t help a giggle. “I was Ginger Rogers again, Jeeves! I even warbled ‘Night and Day’! The assembled gave enthusiastic approbation to my efforts. In fact, I danced my bally feet off! I would bet it was with every gent in the place! Absenting those also in frocks. But from the looks they gave me, more than a few would have loved to risk going backwards on high heels!”

Jeeves regained the lost portion of his posture, straight as a level—are levels vertical or horizontal? I’ve only seen them in the hands of workmen and it’s not as if I was looking closely. There’s a funny little bubble in the middle, I’ve always wanted to ask what it’s for.

What was I saying? Blast.

“Indeed, sir. We should retire to the bath chamber to finish cleaning it off.”

“Excellent notion, Jeeves! Mix the young master a brandy and soda to take with me!” Damn, I had hoped Jeeves would kiss me. I was drunker than I thought. And I was rather astoundingly drunk.

Jeeves mixed the potion and handed it to me as we made our way to the _salle de bains._

He ran hot water into a small basin, put it on the sink and took up a flannel. The bathroom was swaying backwards and forwards. Fearing the lurching would knock me over, I sat on the lid of the _lieux d'aisances._

“If you would tilt your head back, sir.”

You! Not Sir! I mean, he was still calling me _sir_ , but he was also calling me _you._ You in the sense of me, not you in the sense of you. He’s never met you, nor have I. Met you, that is. So he was clearly calling this you me—this me you. Quite.

Jeeves dabbed delicately at the Wooster chin, rinsing the flannel in the basin, taking it up again and rubbing my neck. I had him pause so I could take a large swallow of the b. and s. There was far too much s. in it.

“I wish you’d been there, Jeeves,” I burbled as he wiped my cheeks.

He made a little humming answering noise, then rinsed the flannel and resumed wiping. His hands dabbing delicately at my maidenly complexion filled me with the urge to kiss his knuckles.

 “Miss Flambé outfitted me in a red gown. This Wooster looked sensational, I must say!”

“Indeed, sir,” he murmured, dabbing the skin by my left ear.

“I’ll wager I could have brought most of those men home,” I declared with inebriated elation. “Not that I would, of course. I’ve learned my lesson, Jeeves! Wally told me I was the absolute belle of the night! He’s an excellent dancer as well. That's the gent Bingo introduced me to! You'd like him, Jeeves, he's charming and much more intelligent than self, and not bad looking either."

“Wally, sir? Please close your eyes.”

“Wally Neville-Elliot. That’s who I’ve been spending time with. Jolly chap.”

The cloth suddenly stopped swabbing the master’s dial. I opened my eyes. Jeeves returned my inquiring look with a face that was expressionless as one of those Egyptian Luxor temple statues. Not that I’ve seen them in person. This Wooster is well-traveled, but Egypt holds no appeal. Too sandy, for one. Sphinxes scare me, for another.

Feeling awkward, I finished my b. and s. and set the glass on the sink.

“Bingo’s in love with his sister, Phyllis. The Ripe Cherry was right up her alley. None of the fillies I know would touch that place with the proverbial ten-foot pole. Still waters run deep, eh? I’ve invited the Neville-Elliots for luncheon tomorrow. I might sponsor Wally into the Drones. He offered to attend the Derby with me next spring, and the races in France next year. He placed the winning bet in the Derby. Felix—Felicity—“

“Felicitation, sir.”

 “That’s the beast! I might learn a few things from the fellow.”

“Yes, sir,” he replied frostily.

The flannel was being applied to my neck rather roughly, it seemed.

“I say, Jeeves, that flannel is being applied to my neck rather roughly!”

“I apologize, sir. What dishes would Sir like to have served at luncheon?”

“Drat, do not call me ‘Sir’!”

He fell silent. It was clear that if he was not to address me as ‘Sir’ he would not address me forthcoming.

When he was finished, he stood up and stepped back. “I have laid out our blue pajamas, sir. If there will be nothing further.” He vanished into the night, taking my empty glass with him.

What had upset the man? Considering how most of my friends and relations turned up at all hours of the morning expecting me to provide them a hearty meal, the night before was advance notice. I was too squiffed to think on it further, so fell into bed and was asleep within seconds.

 

Come the dawn, or rather, six hours after dawn showed up, I pried open crusty eyelids. The inside of my mouth tasted as if something had crawled in it and died. My stomach felt as if I’d swallowed the something afterwards.

“Good morning, sir,” came a soft voice, and a tray was extended, a glass of Jeeves’s special restorative on it. I gagged it down, the usual feeling of my head exploding and my body being hit by an omnibus followed by a sense that all was right with the world. Until I looked at my man.

“Good morning, Jeeves.”

The Egyptian statue mask was back on. I asked him about the weather, he answered, but we were decidedly not in sync. Had the mention of Wally disturbed the man?

When Jeeves returned with the breakfast tray, I gave my own version of a sheep like cough. Since I had never done it before, it sounded more like a goat choking on a tin can.

“Is Sir all right, sir?”

I was about to reprimand him for calling me Sir, but returning to that particular well seemed a world-class idiotic idea. “Jeeves, do you know this Wallace Neville-Elliot?”

“When I served as a footman, he was an occasional guest. I was assigned to be his valet.”

“Did he say something opprobrious about the way you brushed a suit? The temperature of the bathwater?”

“No, sir.”

“Oh, I rather thought the name rubbed you the wrong way, Jeeves.”

“No, sir. I will draw Sir’s bath.” He shimmered off to the bath chamber.

I took a forlorn bath, not even consoled by Ducky. In fact, I think Ducky disapproved of me.  My bragging about possible conquests was perhaps tactless. But it been meant in the spirit of joviality, two men of the world, backslapping and the like. Although I couldn’t imagine backslapping Jeeves. His look would burn me to the ground.

It was in a black mood that the ensuing morning found young Bertram. Not one word passed either my lips or his. It was as if we were in a silent film, only in color rather than black and white. And with little noises like drawers opening and closing, the clock ticking.

I hid behind a book, until Jeeves pointed out that I was holding it upside down. “I know that,” I snapped. “I was practicing reading upside down. It’s a well known brain exercise.”

“Very good, sir,” he said, his tone telling me he thought I was even more of an imbecile than usual. Well, only a few more days of this and then...

And then what?

No more Jeeves.

Dash it, _he_ resigned! He should be begging _me_ for his job back! Bertram Wooster was his own man. Independent, unfettered, go-as-you-please. Jeeves would be the one mourning what could have been, not Wooster, B.

The doorbell rang. Jeeves answered it, and the Neville-Elliots and co. entered. Jeeves took their hats and coats. Wally paused in handing his hat to my man.

“Jeeves, old man!” Wally exclaimed. “Of all the people!” He saw me across the room. “Bertie, you didn’t tell me _Jeeves_ was your personal gentleman!”

“Jeeves?” Phyllis said. “Oh, _Jeeves_! I remember you! I say, this is funny, you being here!”

“Indeed, miss,” Jeeves said in a tone that was anything but amused. No one observing would have thought anything was amiss, but I can read Jeeves like a children’s coloring book. Lips were tightened. Eyebrows drawn together. This did not bode well.

“Wally, old man, you know my man Jeeves?”

Wally gave me one of those big white teeth smiles. “It’s been years, but you don’t forget a fellow like Jeeves. The best valet in England! You’re a lucky dog, old chap, having this man in service!”

“Rather,” I returned. This was rum indeed. However I was the host, and hosting was called for. “So, who's for a pre-prandial libation?”

Drink orders were given and Jeeves shimmered over to the bar. Bingo sat down to Phyllis on the sofa. Wally flung his arm around my shoulders.

“Richard, Phyllis hit the jackpot when she met you!” he said.

“Thank you,” said Bingo, puffing up. “She’s the jackpot, not me. The tender orchid, the morning sun, the blue of the ocean—“

“Richard,” Phyllis giggled. He twined his hand with hers.

“If Phyllis hadn’t met Richard, I wouldn’t have met Bertie!” Wally took away his arm, giving me a vigorous pat on the back. “Bertie, what do you say to going to that show at the Royale tomorrow night?”

Jeeves materialized and served the assembled company their drinks.

“How’ve you been, Jeeves?” Wally said, grinning at him. “I must say it’s a pleasure to see you again!”

“Thank you, sir.”

Wally turned back to me. “The best valet in England,” he repeated.

“I say, Bertie,” interrupted Bingo, still gazing worship-fully at Phyllis. “Give us a song! Something, you know, flowers and hearts and true souls together. Romantic, don’t you know. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, darling?” This last was directed to Phyllis, not me.

“Yes, Bertie, do you play?”

 _Why do you think I have a honking big piano in the middle of the room,_ I was tempted to say, but good manners held my tongue. They all chivvied me until I sat on the piano bench and made with the music. I thumbed through my sheet music. “I Like Bananas Because They Have No Bones,” “There’s A Song They Sing At A Sing Song In Sing Sing”, “My Cutie's Due At Two To Two Today”, no, none of those were the goods. At any other time, but not when Young Love was called for, I thought sourly. Young Love could throw itself out the window if you please.

I found a song that suited my frame of mind, a gloomy dirge, “I See Two Lovers”.

 _I see two lovers on the moonlit sand,_  
_Standing face to face,_  
_And as he takes her little trembling hand,_  
_They slowly embrace._

 _I see two lovers in a world apart,_  
_Heart to heart, what bliss!_  
_And in my loneliness, I see them start_  
_One wonderful kiss._

Bingo and Phyllis eyeballed each other in a way that not even Mary Pickford looking at a kitten could top. Wally leaned on the piano, smiling. Jeeves was nowhere to be seen, so I sang louder, putting a throb in my voice. Midway through the last chorus, he came out of the kitchen and stood attentively.

 _I hear their song at the shrine of love,_  
_The wine of love flows free._  
_Is there no voice in the spring of love_  
_To sing of love with me?_

 _I see two lovers while alone I stand,_  
_By the sand and sea._  
_I wonder when I'll find the trembling hand_  
_Fate intended for me._

I finished with a flourish, to lusty clapping by my guests.

“Bertie, what a sad song,” Phyllis said.

“It sounds like you haven’t found anyone since the beauteous Beryl,” Wally said. He turned to Jeeves. “You’d better scare up another girl for him, Jeeves! I can’t believe Bertie is lucky enough to having you working for him. And I can’t believe you’re lucky enough to be working for Bertie! He’s the jolliest chap I’ve met since I came back to London!” Wally leaned over and squeezed my shoulder. “We’ll have more songs, eh, Bertie? A touch less mournful?”

“Luncheon is served,” announced Jeeves.

Our troupe settled down around the table. The perfect table settings, the fresh flowers on the sideboard, the gleaming dining table...a lump came up in my throat. Who else but Jeeves could arrange the forks with such precision?

Phyllis and Bingo insisted on sitting next to each other, which left self occupying the chair next to Wally. There was an indefinable thingness in the air that I couldn’t place. Wally’s attitude toward Jeeves seemed a tad, well, familiar. Jeeves seemed unaffected, going about his duties with smooth professionalism.

As Jeeves was serving the soup course, Wally said, “Bertie, you’ve got to be our guest when we’re next in Paris!”

“Yes, you must!” Phyllis chimed in. “You too, Richard. Paris in the spring! It would be such fun! Our family has the sweetest little house near Montparnasse!”

Jeeves had finished serving the soup and flowed out of the dining room. A lively conversation about Paris ensued, until I hear a loud crash coming from the general direction of the kitchen.

“Hang on, let me see what’s doing in the comestible quarters,” I said, and hurried out. Swinging open the kitchen door, I was greeted with a most unlikely sight.

Jeeves stood in the middle of the room, a large splash of what I deduced to be gravy across his once-immaculate shirtfront. And on his cuffs. And on his shoulders. As if this was not earthshaking enough, there was gravy all over the wall opposite him.

“May I help you, sir?”

“Jeeves.”

“Yes, sir?”

“There is gravy all over that wall. Why is gravy all over that wall?”

“I seem to have dropped the roast.”

"My, you managed to drop it all the way across the kitchen."

"I lost my footing, sir. I apologize for my clumsiness.”

"It's not like you, Jeeves. I say, the platter is shattered. Ho! Platter—shattered! Rhymes, what, what?”

“Very droll, sir.”

Despite the liberal amount of gravy on his person, Jeeves seemed utterly unperturbed. "Shall I prepare some sandwiches for your guests instead, sir?"

"Very well, Jeeves, but don't drop them."

I left the kitchen with a suspicion that all was not well.

My conclusion was reinforced when Jeeves came into the dining room with a large tray of sandwiches. He was still festooned with gravy. My guests’ eyes widened, but no one said anything.

Matters continued in that vein as Jeeves served the next courses, coffee, and sponge cake.  “I say, Bertie, is something the matter with Jeeves?” Wally whispered.

 “Save for wearing a cartload of _au jus_ , the same as always. He must have his reasons. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

 “If  you’ll pardon me, Bertie, I’d like to have a word with him.”

“Eh?”

Wally got up and breezed off to the kitchen. I say, this was a rum sitch! Wally wanting to speak privately to my valet? Probably trying where all others had failed, luring Jeeves away with the promise of a higher salary and servants’ quarters with a terrace. He would fail too, unless...

I'd forgotten. Jeeves wasn’t working for me any more. Jeeves was at liberty.

Phyllis was too busy feeding Bingo tiny pieces of cake to take note of said rum sitch. I thought of flinging myself off my chair onto the floor with a scream, but that probably wouldn’t have gotten their attention.

I sidled over to the piano. I would have preferred to sidle over to the kitchen, but eavesdropping was against the Wooster Code. After picking out a few notes, I nearly decided on “I Can’t Make You Love Me.” But that would give the game away. Instead a cheery song was called for, a song sung by a man with no cares in the world, certainly not a man in distress because his valet had resigned.

“Bertie, play something jolly,” Bingo said, interrupting my increasingly gloomy musings. Love songs were right out. I chose a cheery tune.

 _I don't like your peaches, they are full of stones._  
_I like bananas, because they have no bones._  
_Don't give me tomatoes, can't stand ice cream cones,_  
_I like bananas, because they have no bones._

 _No matter where I go, with Susie, May or Anna,_  
_I want the world to know, I must have my banana!_

 _Cabbages and onions, hurt my singing tones,_  
_I like bananas, because they have no bones!_

When Wally came out of the kitchen, he had an odd expression on his face, somewhere south of a smile.

“Thanks for the victuals, old man,” he said, calling to Phyllis. Holding Bingo’s hand, she came to the door. After waiting for a moment for Jeeves, I hied myself off to the kitchen. Serving sponge cake while clad in gravy was one thing, but not being present to give guests their hats and coats was going too far!

I opened the kitchen door to a yet another odd sight. Jeeves, still wearing a great deal of gravy, was looking out the kitchen window, arms folded, with one of those thousand mile stares, do you know what I mean?

“Jeeves?”

His arms went behind his back, his face slid back into its impassive mask. “Does Sir require anything?”

"The guests are leaving."

Jeeves streamed after me and handed the assembled their raiment.  "I'm going to the Drones with Wally," I told him. "I’ll be home later to change into my evening clothes.Toodle-pip. ”

“Very good, sir.”

I thought I heard another crash as we all headed out for the lift. My, Jeeves was clumsy today!

 

 

Darkness had fallen long before I made it back to Berkeley Mansions to change clothes. It had done my mood a lot of good to spend the afternoon at my club. I handily beat several Drones at billiards _and_ darts, which left me feeling quite the athlete. Several whiskeys had not hurt, either.

To my surprise, Jeeves was not there when I opened the door to the flat. Earlier today had set an unwelcome precedent. First, not helping my guests with coats and hats, now not greeting me at the door! There would be tears before bedtime, mark my words!

None of the lights were on.

“Jeeves? I’m home, Jeeves! Jeeves?”

I did not like this, no I did not. I walked through the gloomy sitting room,  continuing to call for Jeeves. Was this his evening off? No, it wasn’t. I opened the kitchen door, hoping he was there. I didn't give a fig if he was covered in gravy or tar or purple paint, as long as he was in the kitchen. It was spotlessly clean, all traces of gravy expunged from the premises. The only light came from the window. A cold, creeping dread took hold of me. Where was the man, dash it! 

I checked my bedroom and bath, the guest bedroom, everywhere I could think of, panic building in me, until at last I came to Jeeves’s room. I knocked softly. Perhaps he had fallen asleep. I knocked again. “Jeeves?” No answer forthcoming, I opened the door.

The room was empty. In fact it was emptier than empty. Although the bedclothes were folded with military precision, there were no picture frames on the dresser, the wardrobe door was open with nothing inside...

I couldn’t breathe. Even though I knew I wouldn’t find him, I looked into Jeeves’s bathroom. Neatly folded towels, but no shaving kit, no comb.

Jeeves was gone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The banjolele!  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'The Wearing Of The Green' is an anonymously written song about the suppression of the Irish by the English. It was illegal to wear a shamrock as it was a symbol of rebellion.
> 
> Although George Formby is seen playing a ukelele, he also owned Gibson banjo ukeleles, which were also known as banjoleles. Formby was a popular British entertainer from the 1920s-1950s.
> 
> Singer/composer Russ Columbo was at the height of his tremendous popularity when he was accidentally shot and killed in 1934.


	26. The Giraffe Man Cometh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bertie watches Jeeves wail piteously.

The Woosters are a fearless clan who laugh in the face of disaster. Hurricanes, you say? Ha ha! Marauding armies? Ho ho! Out of brandy? Hee hee!

But this Wooster had no _ha_ s, _ho_ s nor _hee_ s. Not even a faint snicker. No, upon finding his bathroom with nary a trace of an iota of Jeeves, I sat down hard on his bed. I had no idea how long I sat there, immobile, slumped over, hands folded between my legs. But one could not hear the front door from here. Jeeves had the hearing of a foxhound but equipped as I was with ordinary human ears sitting disconsolately on his bed would avail me nothing.

Once I left his inner sanctum, I prowled the flat, anger replacing despair. Surely the blighter left a note! This was unconscionable! If he showed up tonight, by Jove, I was going to dismiss the swine on the spot! Just see if I didn’t!

No, if Jeeves showed up, I’d be so ridiculously grateful I’d anything he wanted. Should he desire to steer clear of romance, then clear of romance would be steered. Strictly on the employer/employee level. Valet duties only. Not even a whiff of _bonhomie._ But he had to return. A house was not a home without Jeeves. Although I lived in a flat, not a house. Still, absent Jeeves, a flat was not a home.

I picked up the telephone in the sitting room and called the Junior Ganymede.

“Good evening, Junior Ganymede.”

“Is Jeeves there?” I demanded.

There was a brief silence. “May I ask who’s calling?”

“His employer. Bertram Wooster. Get him on the phone, sharpish!”

“I am sorry, sir, Mr. Jeeves is not here. We are not expecting him. Would you like to leave a message, sir?”

“Yes! Tell him—tell him—blast, tell him I called and to get back here with all due speed!”I said, and hung up.The fellow on the other end of the line would be impressed by my urgency. But what if he didn't go to his club?

To hear him tell it, Jeeves had a plethora of relatives, but I didn’t know who any of them were.

I poured a stiff brandy and settled in to wait. The ungrateful hound! Had I not furnished his quarters luxuriously, with a comfortable bed, armchair, desk, and other _accoutrements_ other servants did not enjoy? Had I not given him more free time than any of my friends did their servants? Had I not agreed to travel hither thither and yon, even though Bertram is first and foremost a city bird? Rather!

At every noise in the corridor outside the flat, I sat up, hoping it was Jeeves. But there was ne’er sight nor sound of the man. When it became too difficult to sit, I wandered to the window, hoping to espy a familiar bowler hat. When it became too difficult to stand, I sat down again. Soon there would be a trench between the armchair and the window.

While I sat there, all variety of baroque scenarios drifted through the noggin.

Smacking him about the mazzard with a sexton’s shovel, as the Bard of Avon had put it. But the Wooster soul shuddered at such violence. Besides, where did one get a shovel, sexton or otherwise, at this time of the night?

Letting it be known throughout London that he was unemployable. No, that would require fabrications, and fabrications went against the grain. Jeeves was the best valet in the history of—of mankind. Did cavemen have valets? Did a caveman valet wear a bearskin and a bowler? What did they use for trays?

I couldn’t in good conscience lie about the man. A Wooster did not lie. Unless it was for the greater good. Or to get out of an engagement. Or hide an object under the bed. Or—never mind!

The scene that curled up and made itself comfortable was an elaborate fantasy that was tremendously satisfying.

Jeeves would come banging at the door (no longer having the key, of course, this particular scenario wouldn’t be the same if he could quietly let himself in). Ignoring his increasingly frantic pleas, I would sip a brandy and soda and smoke a cigarette or three. Magic—maestro--magnanimously, I would open to the door to find Jeeves on his knees, bare headed, uniform crumpled, weeping in the corridor.

“Please, forgive me, Mr. Wooster,” he would say. “I am so sorry.”

“Stand up, man,” I would respond. “What sort of valet prostrates himself on his knees? I’ll tell what sort. A despicable, cowardly valet who cannot face his master. A valet who knows he does not deserve the love of a kind, handsome, altogether superior specimen of mankind! Good day to you, sir!”

Jeeves would catch the closing door with his hand. “Mr. Wooster, I beg of you, let me enter the home I cherish!”

Relenting, I would watch as he stood, legs unsteady, tears continuing to pour down his traitorous cheeks.  Jeeves would stagger in, take in the sitting room, and burst into renewed tears, burying his head in his hands. “Oh, sir, what have I done? I have destroyed my life and yours!”

I would tap the ash of my cigarette to the floor and watch him flinch. “My life is far from destroyed, Jeeves,” I would drawl. “I have fully recovered from the blow. I expect to have a superior specimen of valet delivered to my doorstep eftsoons.”

“No,” he would moan brokenly, “no, not that! I love you, sir, I _love_ you, it has broken my heart to be away from you. I didn’t realize how desperately I love you.” He would drop to his knees with a loud, un-Jeevesian thud and grab my legs. “I don’t want to go on living without you as my employer! Precious tuffins, light of my life, _please_ take me back!”

“I’m sorry, Jeeves, it is too late.” I would free my legs and stand over him with so much disdain the dain would not only be dissed, it would be doubled dissed. Dis-disdain, I say! “Off with you."

Wailing piteously, Jeeves would stumble out the door, his sobs heard for miles. _Ha!_ And _Ha!_ again! _Ha!_ a third time. I would bask in his suffering! I would bathe in his torment! Serves you right, you rotter! _Ha!_

 

I woke with a start. The brandy glass had slipped out of my hand to the floor. My body was twisted in a most uncomfortable position on the sofa, legs hanging off, head twisted, drooling on a cushion. My first thought was that Jeeves would be deeply annoyed by the mess I’d made. But then I remembered, no Jeeves. I lifted my head. My neck was stiff, and my back wasn’t happy, either.

It was clear that the flat had continued to be _sans_ Jeeves.

I went to my bedroom and undressed myself, dropping my clothes on the floor. In the morning I would sort all of this out. My tumultuous emotions left me droopier than a wet flannel. I crawled into bed and rolled into a ball.

 

Rather than a soft voice wishing me good morning and proffering me the old Oolong, I was blasted awake by the doorbell. _Jeeves!_ It was but the work of a moment to pull on a dressing gown and hoof it to the front door. Any fantasies I had of standing up to the man seemed idiotic in the cold light of morning. I was ready to fling myself at his feet and beg _his_ forgiveness. But I refused to cry. There are limits, you know. Despite my fantasy, we Englishmen do not _blub._

I swung open the door to reveal a rather unusual specimen of humanity. Ridiculously tall, with a long neck and small head, probably weighing in at nine stone, adorned with watery blue eyes and unfortunate teeth, the cove looked unnervingly like a giraffe in a bowler hat. There was a suitcase by his extremely long feet.

“I, um, was sent by the agency, sir,” he said, unnaturally high voice quavering with nerves. “I, um, was given to understand that you required a valet?”

This sounded alarmingly familiar, but I could not place it. Perhaps I was rushing to judgment. Perhaps this giraffe was efficient, calm, well-versed in the arcane knowledge of the valet. I swung open the door.

“Oh, my heavens!” the giraffe said, goggling at the flat. “Lot to keep clean, um, isn’t it?” He looked down at me, watery eyes wide. “I’m ever so grateful to Mr. Jeeves for recommending me for this position, sir. It’s, um, only my second employment. I was an undergardener at Upper Flummox.” He looked around the room. “Lovely light you’ve got for crops, sir.”

“Yes, well, one doubts the efficacy of turning the flat into a potato field.”

He gazed wistfully at the room, as if the furniture should vanish and be replaced with long rows of dirt marked with little sticks.

“Yes, sir. My name is Fallon. I was told to start in at once.”

“I’ll have a pot of tea, eggs and bacon and toast. The kitchen is that way, your quarters down that corridor to the left. When you are finished preparing my breakfast, bring it into the bedroom. When I am finished, you shall dress me.”

He gulped. “Yes, sir—er, very good, sir.”

Fallon was indeed like a giraffe. He turned and clomped toward the servants’ quarters, head bobbing at the end of his long neck, with a clumsy gait as if he bally had hooves.

“By the pricking of my thumbs, something awkward this way comes,” I thought with foreboding.

 

 

My foreboding was justified. The tea was good enough, if not up to the standard I was accustomed to. However, the eggs were greasy, the bacon was dry, the toast walked a tightrope between burnt and ashes. Fallon kept apologizing, until I dismissed the poor chap and he trudged out, the look on his face suggesting he deeply regretted having to work indoors.

As a test, I selected a dark pinstriped suit and a bright pink tie adorned with green tulips that I had been hiding from Jeeves. Fallon said nothing! Nothing! Even a chump like me could see they clashed! What sort of man had Jeeves fixed me up with? Was this revenge? No, despite his giraffe-like appearance and movements, Fallon was eager to please. With time and care, he could very well learn to be a passable valet. But why did it have to be this Wooster who had to give Fallon the time and care? I resigned myself to months of sub-par meals and unsightly accessories.

I  unshipped a sigh. “Oh, Death, where is thy thingummy?”

 

Fallon scorched two of my shirts while ironing them. I felt terrible for the poor man, he looked close to tears as he apologized. And apologized. Fallon apologized when he accidentally drew cold water for my bath. He apologized for being unable to do up my cuff-links. He apologized for not answering the phone correctly. Fortunately, the caller was selling magazine subscriptions. Since I was nearby, I was able to prevent Fallon from signing me up for _Woman’s Home Companion_.

Where were the steely hints of disapproval of yesteryear? The twitching of the nostril when the young master wore an unsuitable hat?  I paced the Aubusson with a heavy tread. I had to get Jeeves back. This simply was too much to bear. Curdled cheese sauce over dried-out fish was straining my _noblesse oblige_ like nobody’s business. Not to mention the pain in my chest, the feeling that life had lost meaning without Jeeves. I loved him. There it was. I loved him. Even if he never fixed me a cup of tea again, I needed Jeeves here. Even if all he did during his waking hours was read philosophy, I needed him here. Jeeves must love me, or he wouldn’t have done a runner. Unless he didn't, but the master's behavior was beyond the pale.

Repeated calls to the Junior Ganymede yielded naught. When Fallon was out running errands (certain to bring back the wrong kind of cigarettes), I pored over the telephone directory, calling every Jeeves I could find. Since there were only two others, it didn’t take long. How could they not be related to Jeeves if their last names were Jeeves? It wasn’t a common name like Smith. Or Jones. Or Futterington.

I thought over recent weeks, looking for some kind of hint, some incident...

Ah- _hah_!

Eric Stanton. I remembered their easy smiles, their camaraderie. He’d gone to Eric Stanton.

Dash it, that could not be borne!

“I’m going out!” I called to Fallon, who was busily repotting a plant in the middle of the room, dirt scattered around him. He stood up to get my hat and coat, but his hands were coated with dirt, so I waved him off and got them myself.


	27. The Search For Jeeves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bertie finds himself frustrated at every turn. And Fallon blows up the kitchen.

I leapt out of the taxi when it reached the Princess Theater and dashed through the backstage door—well, I meant to, except I’d forgotten to pay the driver and had to dash back.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Wooster,” the stage doorman greeted me amiably. “Haven’t seen you around these parts recently.”

“Yes, well, the mad whirl of modern life, you know,” I fumbled, peering past the door. “I say, have you by any chance seen my man, Jeeves, ghosting about the place?”

“No, Mr. Wooster, can’t say as I have.”

“I’ll see for myself, shall I?”

Head held high, I strode backstage, ready to do battle with Stantons of all shapes and sizes. No actor, no matter how popular and magnetic and handsome, was going to steal Jeeves out from under my nose, not while I had breath in my corpus!

Unfortunately, my head was held a tad too high, so it was with a great “oof!” the breath was knocked out of the corpus by encountering an extremely rotund form at speed. I was knocked to the ground, where I flailed in confusion.

“Wooster?”

The extremely rotund form revealed itself to be Blumenfeld. If anything, he was more extremely rotund. Apparently the fruits of the success of “Node’s Jollities of 1934” were the starches and sweets of success. His blighted son stared at me and laughed.

“What an idiot, Pop!”

“Now, sweetheart, don’t talk about your inferiors that way,” his father cautioned.

“Inferiors?” I squawked up at them. I attempted to gain purchase on the ground. “Blumenfeld!”

Fortunately a burly stagehand witnessed the incident in question, because he hastened over and helped me up. I would have tipped my fedora but it had fallen along with me. I picked it up and tried to brush the dust off the brim.

“What a pleasure to run into you—that is, encounter you, shame it had to be so forcefully, my fault, of course, but you’re quite solid, you know”—“

“What’s he talking about, Pop?”

“I’m sure I don’t know, sweetheart.” He turned his attention to me. “Wooster?”

“The very same.”

Yes, yes, yes,” he said impatiently. “What are you doing here?”

“I am on a mission, Blumenfeld, of a most serious nature. More than that I cannot say.”

“He wants to pinch the chorus girls,” said the child excrescence.

Blumenfeld gave me the side-eye. “You aren’t carrying a cigarette lighter, are you?”

“No.”

“Matches?”

“No.”

“Glue?”

“Of course not. What do you take me for, a tobacconist?”

“Just being safe, Wooster.” He continued the side-eye as I again strode forth, head held high. But not so high I wouldn’t see any more obstacles. Being on the floor once was enough for one day.

There it was! The door to that scoundrel’s dressing room! We would see what we would see! A unpleasant sort of swirly feeling was in the pit of my stomach, but I ignored it and soldiered on.

“Ah-HAH!” I exclaimed as I flung open the dressing room door and caught side of a shirtless Eric Stanton. “Caught you _in fragrance delectable_!”

Oh, dear. Oh, my. I had indeed caught Eric Stanton _in fragment dirigible_ , but it was not Jeeves on the divan in naked wearing only socks. It was Oofy Prosser.

The horrifying sight rooted me to the spot. Until the end of my days, that image will be scorched into the deepest recesses of Bertram’s brain. Even if those deepest recesses are somewhat shallow, scorched it is.

“Glug,” I stated. “Gurk.”

Oofy grabbed a nearby makeup towel, which was barely enough to cover his front. “What are you doing here, Bertie?”

“Gick,” I apologized, closing my eyes. “Neee...”

I slammed the door shut and fell against it like a piece of sodden paper. The sight of Oofy starkers caused me to shudder like a wooden window shingle banging in the wind. I tried to catch my breath and think of something pleasanter. Like dead rats and a ball of string in a puddle.

“Bertie!” came an angry female voice.

The voice was matched by an angry female face, blazing green eyes and a bally marvelous pair of legs.

“What are you _doing_ here?” Beryl demanded.

“I am in a different and dreadful world,” I gasped. “I have seen Oofy Prosser with no clothes on.”

She made a face. “Eeeuch.” Then shook herself. “I can’t see you any more, Bertie, I’m sorry, but it is simply not on.”

“I’m not here to see you,” I riposted. “I have come looking for the blighter of a manservant of mine. _Ex_ -manservant of mine.”

Beryl put a hand on the arm. “Bertie, no!” Anger turned to womanly sympathy.

“Bertie, yes. Jeeves has resigned.”

Her eyes met mine.  “Was it because of—us?”

I put my hand over her hand. “Yes.”

“ _Bertie._ You just had to prove Jeeves right, didn’t you?”

“It wasn’t my fault!” I blurted, before I remembered it dashed well was my fault. “No need to dredge up the past, woman. He seemed to be coming around to change his mind, until I had the Neville-Elliots to lunch. It was the strangest binge I’ve hosted, and I have hosted some truly remarkable binges. Wally—he’s a fellow my friend Bingo wants me to sponsor into the Drones—seemed to know Jeeves awfully well. Jeeves was altogether Jeeves, except when he was altogether not Jeeves, if you take my meaning. He dropped the roast all the way across the kitchen. He’s never been that clumsy. He’s never been clumsy at all. Oh, and that was after we went to the Ripe Cherry.”

“You and _Jeeves_?”

“No, the Neville-Elliots. Why on earth would I take my valet to a drag show? Wally’s a delightful fellow, but you might have to pretend to be my sweet patootie again, One suspects he has designs on this Wooster. You’d better inform Gerald beforehand.”

Beryl stared at me. “You are so thick concrete has nothing on you.”

“Pardon?”

“Sweet, do you seriously expect me to believe Jeeves _dropped_ a roast across a room? First you step out on him with me, then you have a man who ‘has designs’ on you to your flat? What is _wrong_ with you?”

“According to those who know me, quite a bit.”

“That’s not what I mean! You toffs think you can get away with murder—“

“No, I don’t!”

“Yes you do. Jeeves is a man with feelings in case you haven’t noticed. You have behaved terribly toward him. Maybe he’s being an idiot but that doesn’t give you permission to treat him the way you have.”

I was sandbagged. Beryl was right. Why had I ever gotten mixed up with a popsy with such perspicacity? Why hadn’t she been one of those prattling, sighing females who’d look at me with dumb adoration? Leaving aside the fact that prattling, sighing females aggravate me to no end, that is.

“If you will excuse me, madam, I have important business to attend to.” I drew myself up and hastened out the stage door. Beryl huffed loudly in a meaning manner.

 

 

An idea that was so obvious came to me in the taxi on the way back to the flat. Fallon! Jeeves had lassoed the giraffe at the employment agency! It would be a piece of gateau to get the name of the agency and find out where Jeeves had spirited himself off to. If I had to go to the Isle of Man to find the blighter, then to the Isle of Man I would go!  Although I sincerely hoped he had only gone as far as Cambridge.

“Fallon!” I called as I curveted through the front door. I was hit whang in the snoot by the smell of burning. Fallon emerged from the kitchen, clutching a dirty cloth. The man’s face was liberally decorated with soot.

“I, um, I’m sorry, sir, but I’ve never, uh, used a gas oven before.”

“Is the fire out?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re certain, Fallon? All flammable materials battened down?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then don’t give it another thought, my man. I have more important fish to sauté. What’s the name of this employment agency from whence valets emerge?”

“Miss Ada Clarkson’s, sir.” His pale eyes bulged. “You’re not dismissing me, are you, sir? I’m doing my best—“

“I know you are, Fallon.”

Drat, he looked as if he was about to cry. The Wooster heart went out to him. But I was a man on a mission.

“Fallon, my man, do we have any lamb about?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh. Chicken?”

“Yes, sir.”

“My, we’re well-stocked. Um...fish?”

“No, sir, there is no fish.”

“Ah-hah! I’m in the mood for some fish tonight, Fallon! Nip out to—to wherever they sell fish.”

“The fish market, sir?”

“Yes, that’s the baby. Whatever fish you think best. One that doesn’t involve the oven.”

“Very good, sir. But shouldn’t I clean the kitchen first?”

“Is anything still burning?”

“No, sir.”

“In that case, it can wait. I appreciate your dedication, Fallon, even if you are destroying my flat.”

“Very good, sir.”

It seemed like a century before Fallon had gotten his face wiped off, found his coat, bowler and gloves and headed out to the market.

The instant the door closed behind him, I seized the telephone.

“Ada Clarkson’s International Employment Bureau,” said a brisk female voice.

“This is Bertram Wooster, late of Reginald Jeeves. Is this Miss Clarkson?"

“Mr. Wooster! Please hold, I'll put you through."

There was a brief pause, and another female's voice came through. This one was cultured and slightly deep. Miss Ada Clarkson was undoubtedly a fine figure of a woman.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Wooster! How is our Mr. Fallon working out?”

“He’s got spirit, I’ll say that for the lad, very ‘can do’, even if he blew up my kitchen—but he’s putting it to rights even as we speak, what, what? That reminds me, as long as we’re speaking of valets, would you have a notion where Jeeves went?”

“You wish to locate Mr. Jeeves, Mr. Wooster? We do not give out information about our employees, sir.”

“Ah, this is a bit, well, ah, he, ah, left his wallet here—silly, eh, leaving his wallet behind? Such a brilliant mind, he forgets mundane details when he’s wrapped up in philosophy or some such. Noggin in the cumulus, if you take my meaning.”

“Mr. Jeeves _forgot_ his wallet, Mr. Wooster? That doesn’t sound like him.” Miss Clarkson was suspicious. I thanked heaven above that she couldn’t see me. A stinging blush o’ertook the dial, traveled down my neck and under my shirt collar. 

“His wallet? Did I say that? I meant to say his autographed copy of Spinoza. Silly me, rather!” I tried for a light laugh but only succeeding in making a sort of gasping wheeze. “You’d be doing Jeeves a favor if you could tell me where he’s been sent, he loves Spinoza like his own mother, that is, if you could love a dead philosopher as much as you could your own mother, I don’t know anything about Jeeves’s mother, er…I could have it sent to him. The book, not his mother. Jeeves probably knows where to find her.”

“I am sorry, Mr. Wooster, but he has not taken another position," said Miss Clarkson. "Mr. Jeeves informed us that he was taking what he called—wait--Mabel!" she called, presumably to someone else, because I have never been called Mabel. There was some talk I couldn't make out, and then Miss Clarkson came back on the line. "Mr. Wooster?"

"Still here, my dear Miss Clarkson."

"Hm. Yes. I regret to tell you that Mr. Jeeves is taking what he called ‘an extended hiatus’. You can send the book here to the agency and we’ll hold it for him.”

“Oh! No need, no need, thank you, good afternoon.” I banged down the receiver. Damn! A hiatus? How on earth was I going to find the blighter!

He didn’t want to be found. More important, he didn’t want to be found by me. What was I going to do now?

It was some time later when Fallon returned to the flat. “Good evening, sir,” he said, awkwardly balancing the groceries as he hung his hat. He tried removing his coat, but almost dropped his parcels. With an embarrassed look, Fallon went into the kitchen, his coat half off one shoulder. Hadn’t Miss Ada Clarkson’s Agency taught the fellow _anything_? Why wasn’t Jeeves floating in like a zephyr?

I followed him to the kitchen door, careful not to look inside. I didn’t know how much more I could take at the moment. “Yes, sir?” His eyebrows had been singed off.

 “Fix me a whiskey and soda, the merest whisper of soda.”

Fallon gaped at me. “Whisper of soda, sir? If you’ll forgive me, what does that mean?”

“It means what I said, my man, a whisper.”

“Um, very good, sir.” He went into kitchen, presumably to get sorted. Happily, Fallon did know what a whisper of soda meant, which almost made up for blowing up the kitchen and sprinkling potting soil across the carpet. He stood at respectful attention as I brooded tensely on what my next step should be. How was I going to find the finest valet in England?

“Ha!” I sat up, dropping my drink and splashing my trousers. However I gave not a thought to saturated wool.

 _The best valet in England_ , Wally Neville-Elliot had said. Wally had gone into the kitchen to speak with Jeeves—Jeeves left that night—ah _hah!_

The treacherous blackguard! The perfidious cur! The faithless knave!

“I’m going out!” I yipped, heading for the door.

“Again, Mr. Wooster? Don’t you want to change your suit? What about the fish?”

“Fish be damned! I am on a quest, Fallon!”

He stared at me. “Very good, sir. I think.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Miss Ada Clarkson's International Employment Bureau is mentioned in _Leave It To Psmith._


	28. The Consequences of Breaking Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bingo learns the consequences of falling out of love.

Wally Neville-Elliot’s residence was on Bond Street. Filled to the brim with righteous wrath, I bounded up to the front door into the lobby, up the stairs to the first floor, and rang the bell of Number 4 with a ferocious pounding of the digit.

I fully expected the door to be opened by Jeeves. If so, he was going to get a snootful of said righteous wrath with a few added personal insults regarding his overabundant use of brilliantine.

Instead it was opened by a decrepit old chap in a valet’s uniform. He was gifted with a pronounced lack of hair and abundance of stomach. Rather reminded me of Jeeves’s uncle, Charlie Silversmith, if the man was wizened and bent and missing a few teeth. Well, no, because Uncle Charlie would dare Nature to wizen him, and Nature would be cowed and go back to changing the seasons or whatever it had been doing beforehand.

 “May I help you, sir?” he said, or rather, wheezed.

“I’m looking for one Jeeves, R. Present him instanter!”

The chap looked at me as if a multi-color plumed feather had suddenly sprouted from the top of my hat. “There’s no Jeeves here. Do you have the right address, sir?”

“Does Wally Neville-Elliot live here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then, yes, I do!”

I stalked past the past said decrepit old chap into the foyer. It was very Hollywood, all clean lines and white as far as the eye could see. I fully expected Kay Francis to materialize, complete with cigarette holder and languorous air.

“Jeeves!” I cried. “Jeeves, show yourself this instant!”

“Bertie?” Wally popped his head out of a nearby door. “What are you doing here?”

“Don’t ‘what are you doing here’ with me, you eater of broken meats! Where is Jeeves?”

Wally stepped into the foyer. “How should I know?”

“He’s here, dash it!”

The puzzlement on Wally’s dial was genuine. “No, he isn’t. Whatever made you think Jeeves would be here?”

Said puzzlement caused my righteous wrath to slip down through my body and sink through the floor. “He’s left me. You blab on about Jeeves being the best valet in England and then you corner him in my kitchen and then he’s gone! I blame your loose talk and lashings of praise. You turned his head. He has gone to teal-er pastures!”

Wally and his decrepit valet exchanged looks. “Come into the sitting room and have a drink,” Wally said in a calming voice. “Simmons, a whiskey and soda for Mr. Wooster.”

“Very good, sir.” Simmons edged cautiously around me into the library.

I was settled into a large leather armchair and Simmons presented me with the libation. Wally perched on the arm of the armchair opposite, putting his hands on his knees. His white-blond eyebrows knitted together.

“So, what’s this nonsense about Jeeves, Bertie?”

I deflated like a child’s balloon left tied to a lamppost too long.

“Has he really left?”

I nodded. “Biffed off to parts unknown. No note, no forwarding address. Like a thief in the night, except there’s nothing missing. Except Jeeves.” An idea struck me. “Wally, does your man belong to the Junior Ganymede?”

“I do, sir,” said the ancient servitor.

“Jeeves! Is he lurking about your club? Dark haired chap, about so high—“ I indicated about five inches above my head—“deep thinker? Spouts philosophy, poetry, that sort of cabbage?”

“Mr. Jeeves has not been at the Junior Ganymede in some days, to my knowledge, sir,” said the man.

“You see?” I gestured, palms up. “Nowhere to be found.”

“Would you excuse us, Simmons?”

“Very good, sir.”

Wally leaned forward. “Bertie, what I’m going to tell you might be a bit of a shock.”

“More than Jeeves taking a runner?”

“You should know that Jeeves and I once knew each other. Well. _Very_ well.”

My ability to breathe took a powder. After a few minutes of struggling, I gasped: “Blimey... _you’re_ Jeeves’s great love?”

“God, no, Bertie!” He laughed. “What a silly idea! I mean to say, he’s a servant. It started when I was a sprout, went on for about five years. He was older, and good looking, and discreet.  We parted with no hard feelings. I admit, at your flat, I approached Jeeves, but he wasn’t interested. Pity. So I told him that I intended to pursue you. He was quite put out.”

“Did he think I was willing to be pursued?”

“Of course he did. You’re obviously willing to be pursued. Why else would you be batting your baby blues at me?”

“I did not!” I said indignantly. “I mean to say, not a single eye was batted! I ought to know if I’m batting my own baby blues. There has been no batting of any sort! Perish the thought!”

The front door banged open, and a female’s voice called “Wally! Wally!”

Phyllis burst into the library. Her pale face was streaked with tears, eyes red-rimmed. She rushed to her brother and wept against his shoulder, not seeing that I was standing there.

“Phyllis! What on earth happened?” Wally took her in his arms. “What’s wrong?”

“It—it’s Richard.”

“Bingo?” I said. “What on earth could Bingo do to anyone to cause tears?”

Startled, she turned and stared at me, clutching her brother closer. “He’s an uncaring waster, just like you!”

“I say!”

He-s—he’s—he’s broken it off between us!”

 “Phyllis!” Wally said.

“I thought he was going to—to propose. But he told me—he told me—“ A fresh torrent of sobs blew through her slender frame. “He told me he was in love with someone else, he was terribly sorry, and then he said—he said—“

“What did he say, darling?”

“He said, _toodle pip_! And then he was gone! _Toodle pip!_ What sort of man leaves a woman and says toodle pip?”

“Bingo did, it seems,” I offered helpfully.

“Oh, Walleeee—“ He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped her eyes and nose. She buried her head on his shoulder. “I loved him. _Toodle pip_!”

“The blighter!” Wally exclaimed. “The cad!”

“That’s how Bingo is,” I said. “He falls in love with a different filly every two weeks on average.”

Wally’s eyes narrowed. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“It’s not my place to stick my oar in Bingo’s affairs, is it?”

“Walleeeeee!” Phyllis entered another round of sobs. I felt for her, poor girl. To be in love with a man as fickle as Bingo was to unwittingly play a roulette game one was certain to lose.

A bolt from above hit me square on the apex of the head. This must be how Jeeves felt, only with less wailing and running of nose. Heretofore I had considered myself a chap more sinned against than sinning. But if anyone had been sinned against, it was my man.

“Phyll, I shall teach that fiend to play with my beloved sister’s heart. Simmons!”

“Yes, sir?” The butler had the same knack of appearing out of nowhere that Jeeves had.

“My hat and coat! I’m going to the Drones!”

“Wally!” I gasped. “Can’t you wait until cooler heads prevail? Perhaps Phyllis will recover sooner than you think.”

Phyllis lifted her head from Wally’s shoulder, looked at me, then burst into tears again.

“Darling Phyll, I am shall avenge your honor!” With a hearty cry of “Ho!” he let go of his sister. Both of us grabbed our outdoor gear. Wally ran toward the Drones club, self in hot pursuit.

 

 

Wally Neville-Elliot bounded up the front stairs to the Drones. Before he could enter, I made a grab for Wally’s tan camelhair coat. “Wally, you don’t want to act rashly, old man! You haven’t heard Bingo’s side of the story!”

Wally whirled around so fast I almost went flying past him. Instead I collided with the coat room attendant, who had been enjoying a smoke outside.

“What _is_ his side of the story?” Wally demanded.

I realized that Bingo’s side of the story would be of no help at all. “Um, well,” I said, wishing I was in deepest Africa facing an annoyed lion rather than Wally. “If it’s anything like his usual, he falls in love with a girl, falls out of love with said girl, falls in love with another girl, and so on.”

“The swine!”

Wally stormed through the smoking room, attracting the notice of none of my fellow Drones, who were gathered around a tower of cigars, one member perching one precariously on top. “Where is he?” he shouted. “Where is that Little blackguard?”

One of the Drones looked up from the cigar he was rolling in his fingers preparatory to placing it on the tower. “He’s in the billiard room.”

Wally made a beeline for the billiard room, self following, dreading what was going to happen.

“LITTLE!” he bellowed, seeing Bingo standing by the billiard table, cue in hand.

Bingo gulped, eyes going wide, mouth dropping open.

“Hello, Wally,” he said, trying for insouciance but achieving panic-stricken. “Awfully sorry about Phyllis, topping girl, make some man a wonderful wife some day, but you see, I met the most beautiful goddess behind the counter of the flower shop—“

With a roar, Wally flung himself at Bingo, who lifted his cue in front of himself for protection. Wally knocked it out of his hands, and Bingo proceeded to run around the billiard table away from the enraged brother. Unfortunately, I was still standing in doorway, preventing easy escape. Bingo saw and turned to run around the other side of the billiard table, not incidentally stamping hard on my foot. As I jumped up and down, holding my foot, Wally came around and crashed into me, knocking me onto the floor. Rather than doing the gentlemanly thing and helping me up, he continued to chase Bingo. Bingo was now prevented from leaving the room by a growing crowd of Drones, drawn by the commotion. So now Bingo and Wally were both hopping over me as they made the circuit like a greyhound chasing a motorized rabbit. I rolled into a ball, hands protecting my head. Fellow Drones starting taking bets on which one would make the finish line first.

It could have gone on for hours. But Wally changed direction, leapt over me, and his fist connected with Bingo’s nose. Bingo went down like a shot deer with loud thunking noises as he bounced off the wall. The Drone who won the bet cheered loudly. The others looked on in appalled silence. Several waiters came rushing in to help Bingo to his feet, one holding a napkin to his bloodied nose.

“I say, fisticuffs are not done at the Drones,” said Freddie Widgeon. “Dinner roll cricket, yes. Goodhearted practical jokes, yes. Darts, most decidedly. But shouting and biffing a member of long-standing in the nose is not on."

I lifted my head, first making sure it was safe to do so.

“Wally, old chap,” I said, “I don’t think I’ll be sponsoring you into the Drones after all.”


	29. Beryl To The Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bertie becomes a hermit. Until he encounters Beryl and Gerald.
> 
> Please comment! And thank you for all of the lovely comments so far!

The ensuing days dragged by at a pace that would make a snail say “Step on the gas, buster.”

Two weeks after Jeeves left, I sat up in bed and rang the bell. As he did every morning, several minutes later, Fallon clip-clopped into the bedroom. By now nothing could dissuade me from the notion that Fallon transformed into an actual giraffe when nobody was around. He carried my tea on a tray, which he carefully set on my bedside table. After an incident where he had fumbled the tea and dropped it on the eiderdown, I had decided it might be best if it was set down on a flat service elsewhere, not so near to the young master’s anatomy. Jeeves wouldn’t have spilled my tea if an earthquake had given London a good shake.

“Good morning, sir,” he said, stepping away cautiously as I reached for the cup.

“Good morning, Fallon. What sort of day is it today?”

He looked out of the window for several moments. “It’s cold, sir. People are wearing overcoats.”

I sighed. A weather report from looking out at the passing parade was the best I could hope for these days.

Times had indeed changed _chez_ Wooster. The touch of an unseen hand was now the swat of clumsy digits. Despite the inconvenience, I found it best to bathe and dress before breakfast. Fallon and I had discovered that having the eggs and b. at the dining table was safer than risking a tray crashing across the bed. The poor boob tried to select my clothes, and had hit on the idea of having everything in the same color, from suit to socks to tie. After two days of monochrome, I added brightly colored ties to the ensemble.

Every morning I telephoned the Ada Clarkson Agency. La Clarkson had ceased taking my calls. Instead, a bored secretary repeated the same thing every time. “Mr. Wooster, we don’t know where Mr. Jeeves is. I’m sorry.”

Every afternoon I telephoned the Junior Ganymede and got much the same answer.  For three nights, as the detectives in the mystery novels have it, I “staked out” the Junior Ganymede, certain they were lying. But neither hide nor hair of Jeeves. And I caught a cold from sitting out on freezing nights.

I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep, I didn’t want to go to my club, I didn’t want to play the piano, I didn’t want anything. Except Jeeves. Drinking didn’t help my mood or help me sleep, it made me soppy and maudlin. Everything in the blasted flat reminded me of Jeeves. The carpets he hoovered. The piano, polished to a high shine. The bench where we sat and played together on occasion. The sofa, cushions he lovingly plumped. The mantel he dusted. My bedroom, where we had discovered each other. If that drip Fallon hadn’t moved in, I would have slept in Jeeves’s bed and cuddled his pillow.

Said drip Fallon was by now quite afraid of the young master, if you can believe it. It took me a while to become aware of said fright, because no one had ever been afraid of me before. Any attempts on my part to put water on the troubled oils availed me naught. The endless mistakes and apologies, the nervous looks from wide, watery blue eyes, the hands wringing behind the back tried even my equable temper. I was wont to be silent or snappish. Was I behaving like Aunt Agatha? I wasn’t bellowing and stomping my cloven hooves. But I wasn’t behaving like Bertram Wooster, either. Gone was the carefree _boulevardier_ , a spring in his step and a rose in his buttonhole. There was no _esprit_ in my _vie_.

When friends telephoned, I had Fallon put them off. I didn’t want to see anybody. Except Jeeves.

So, this is what heartbreak felt like. To be vulgar, heartbreak could get stuffed.

 

 

But by now, self-imposed exile was turning into cabin fever.  “What ho,” I said to myself, “this cannot go on. I needs must enjoy some entertainment.” Perhaps taking in a show would help buck up the Wooster mood. The prospect of any of my friends attending with me was dispiriting. My constitution wasn’t up to listening to any of the Drones driveling on about beazels or how many cards some chap had tossed into a top hat, even if it had gone into the triple digits.

At the Comedy Theatre, the musical revue, “Hi Diddle Diddle” looked diverting. It was an Andre Charlot production, which were always high up on the diverting scale.

Rather than risk Fallon buying a ticket for the wrong show, I took a cab to the West End and fetched up at the theater on Panton Street. As I was handing the ready to the chap in the box, I heard an all-too-familiar voice.

“Bertie Wooster!”

Sure enough, it was Beryl, on the arm of the Gerald Espenson cove. I made a futile effort to appear completely deaf, but she bore down on me, Gerald pulled along in her wake. Did he know about our night of drunken passion? Was he going to biff me in the nose, like Wally did to Bingo?

“Bertie!”

“What ho,” I said, tipping the hat, glancing around to see which would be the best direction to leg it if I had to. Gerald looked up at me, his mild map suggesting no suspicion whatsoever.

“Gerald, you remember Bertie Wooster!”

“Allo-allo!” Gerald rejoined, tipping his hat, and for a while this was where matters stood.

“So,” I said for anything better, “how’s Noel Coward doing?”

Gerald’s eyes shone. “Darling Noel!”

The expression on Beryl’s map gave the distinct impression she’d like to see me be hit by lightning.

“He is simply the most topping, the most talented director I have ever worked with,” Gerald swooned. “And Larry—“

“Larry?”

Gerald gave an actor-ish chuckle. “Ah! I’m sorry, I should have said Laurence Olivier. It’s going to make a hit. Noel is brilliant. Isn’t he, my darling?”

“I wouldn’t know—“ I said.

“He’s talking to me, Bertie!” said Beryl.

“Oh,” I retorted, with all of the poise I could muster.

She followed it up with, “you look awful.”

“Here, there’s no need to for insults.”

She frowned. “Where’s Jeeves?”

“Still away with the wind, young Beryl.”

“Jeeves—is that the big fellow who made Sandy Simpson run off to Northumberland?” Gerald asked eagerly.

“You know about that?”

Beryl smiled. “Jeeves is legendary, Bertie. That night will never be forgotten.”

“I mean to say, what?” I was deeply embarrassed. “I am deeply embarrassed, I’ll have you know! It’s hardly the thing to flaunt someone else’s dirty laundry!”

“It’s a corking story, Wooster!” exclaimed Gerald. He pulled Beryl closer. “And poor Beryl had to put together that show for a surprise birthday party!”

I gasped. I gaped. I gawked. “You—you know all of that?” I transferred the gape to Beryl. “You _told_ him?”

Beryl snorted. “Bertie, there were a hundred people there that night! It’s the _theater_.” She looked at me as if I ought to know better. “Gossip spreads fast and a juicy story like that one travels even faster.”

“That fellow Jeeves is a sly one!” Gerald exclaimed. “Northumberland, of all places! Northumberland! I played there in repertory, and I hope to never lay eyes on it ever again!”

Beryl suddenly straightened, eyes popping. “Northumberland!” she squawked.

“Beg pardon?”

“Northumberland, Bertie!” She proceeded to haul Gerald from whence they’d come. “I shall telephone you!”

Well, wasn’t that the oddest thing, I thought.

 

 

It was not but the next day that the telephone rang. Fallon answered, gulped, and looked at me. “Uh, Mr. Wooster, a Miss Dixon is on the line.”

“Oh?” I took the receiver. “What ho, Beryl?”

“Bertie!”

“Yes?”

“We’ve found Jeeves!”

I clutched the telephone table. “Say that again?”

“We’ve found Jeeves.”

My heart did a high jump and smashed into my ribs. My legs became distinctly noodle-esque.

“ _Where_?”

“Now, sweet, if I tell you, you’ll go running off after him and queer the pitch for certain.”

I glared at the receiver. “Then why are you telling me this? To torture me with the knowledge that he is in my vicinity?”

“No, I have a plan.”

“What sort of plan?”

“Don’t worry. Leave it all to little Beryl.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Hi-Diddle-Diddle", a musical revue produced by Andre Charlot, played the Comedy Theatre in 1934.


	30. After You, Who?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ginger Rogers rides again.
> 
>  
> 
> Do comment, won't you?

“I can’t do this.” My voice came out in a croak. The hands shook, the heart pounded, sweat slid down the sides.

“You _can_ do this, Bertie,” Beryl whispered in my ear.

“It’s not going to work. He’s not going to show up.”

“He will! You should have heard him on the telephone! I promise you, Jeeves had his hat and coat on before he hung up. I have faith in you, sweet.” She gave my shoulder an encouraging pat.

“One of us does, anyway,” I moaned.

She hit me lightly on the upper arm. “I told you, it’s a dead cert.”

“Honey, if Greta Garbo saw you, she’d go home and cry into her Swedish meatballs,” said Miss Flambé behind me.

Flame had indeed pulled out all of the stops. She tricked me out in a blue gown in heavy satiny material that set off my eyes and a blonde wig that curled becomingly around my dial. If I do say so myself, my face was a work of art, swooping black false eyelashes, eyes lined with kohl, red lips. The gown had a high draped neckline front and back so that this Wooster didn’t have to risk shaving himself alone. Otherwise my underarms and lower limbs would have been a patchwork of cuts and nicks. If you like that sort of thing, that’s all well and good, go ahead, be my guest, but I dislike being sliced, particularly in the bedroom, a slap on the bottom is one thing—

Where was I?

“Greta Garbo didn’t have to sing,” I said mournfully.

“Thank goodness for that,” said Flame. “We rehearsed your shapely behind off, so you’d better deliver the goods.”

We stood behind the partial wall that divided the wings from the tables in the Ripe Cherry. Bertram Wooster was about to make the grand gesture, to show the world his feelings for his Jeeves. In a way that wouldn’t get us arrested, that is.

“Keep your voices down!” Beryl hissed.

The bandleader silenced the chattering crowd. “And now, the Ripe Cherry presents the inimitable hot hot _hot_ Miss Flambé!”

The orchestra started the intro to “Masculine Women, Feminine Men.”

Flame sauntered out to the crowd, to tumultuous applause.

“Good evening, my darlings,” she drawled _ala_ Mae West. “Are you ready to have some fun?”

“Yes!” the audience yelled back.

“You asked for it, so I’m givin' it to you.” When she sang, her body undulated, eyes rolled, in fact all of her corpus was in motion as if it was on ball bearings. If only I had that much confidence.

“If only I had that much confidence,” I whispered.

After finishing her first song, Flame belted out “I Need A Little Sugar In My Bowl”, “Blue Skies”, and “He May Be Your Dog But He’s Wearing My Collar”.

Toward the end of the last song, there was commotion on the other side of the partial wall.

“Where is Mr. Wooster?”

JEEVES!

I started to go out, but Beryl grabbed my arm. “Not now, you berk! Stay here and wait for your damn cue! I’ll handle this. Break a leg!”

She went around the wall to the tables. “Jeeves! I’m so glad you’re here!”

“Where is Mr. Wooster?” My goodness, he was so agitated he didn’t greet her properly.

“Not so loud! Bertie’s resting in one of the dressing rooms.”

“How badly is Mr. Wooster injured?”

“Shh! The doctor will be here soon and he’ll tell us if Bertie has fractured his skull. It was quite a fall. Scared the dickens out of the girls. Jeeves, sit down! I’ll take you back as soon as the next act starts. Sit down.”

 _I need a little sugar in my bowl_  
_I need a little hot dog between my rolls_  
_You gettin' different, I've been told_  
_Move your finger, drop something in my bowl_

Miss Flambé took her bows, and slithered back, mouth wide in a red lipstick smile. “Your turn, big boy. Break a leg!”

There was a thunderous roar in my ears.

_Remember Nietzsche._

The orchestra swung into the Cole Porter song I had chosen for maximum romantic effect.

“And now, the Ripe Cherry is proud to present, Miss Ginger Rogers!”

I swept out, taking a bow, then looked smack at Jeeves and smiled. I wasn’t prepared for the effect of seeing him, even only the outline of his head and broad shoulders beyond the lights, had on me. I wanted to do what the lovers in motion pictures do, run at each other so exuberantly one fears they’ll collide and break their noses.

Instead, I plastered a seductive smile on my map and a hand on my waist and made my way to the lip of the floor where I could see him.

 “What _ho_ ,” I breathed in the manner of a screen siren.

His reaction was most gratifying. His eyes widened, his mouth opened and he gaped like a fish. Jeeves! Dumbfounded! Gobsmacked! _Flabbergasted!_

I hid the trembling hands by putting them on the hips. I tilted the head flirtatiously (at least one hoped it was flirtatious and not as if I had a crick in my neck).

Thoughts stampeded through the grey matter at lightning speed. What if Jeeves stormed out, realizing he had been tricked? What if he refused to speak with me afterwards? What if he thought my dress was not in the best of taste?

Before I could bolt, the orchestra struck up the tune.

Cole Porter, don’t fail me now! I turned to the crowd and sang.

 _After you, who could supply my sky of blue?_  
_After you, who could I love?_  
_After you, why should I take the time to try,_  
_For who else could qualify?_  
_After you, who?_

 As Flame had drilled me, I sashayed across the room to the other side of Jeeves (Jeeves, by jingo!) crooning to the front row of tables. A bloke with his seat turned toward the stage reached out to take my hand. I smirked _ala_ Miss Flambé and kept moving. The audience was eating it up with a silver soup spoon.

 _Hold my hand and swear_  
_You'll never cease to care,_  
_For without you there what could I do?_

 _I could search years_  
_But who else could change my tears_  
_Into laughter after you?_

Now, center of room. Wiggle the bottom the way Flame taught you. Swing the skirt with both hands. Wink at that fat cove by the back wall. What _is_ that hat the woman in that middle table wearing? Don’tlookatJeevesdon’tlookatJeevesdon’tlookatJeeves—

 _Though with joy I should be reeling_  
_That at last you came my way_  
_There’s no further use concealing that I’m feeling far from gay_  
_For the rare allure about you makes me all the plainer see_  
_How inane, how vain, how empty life without you would be_

Slow saunter toward where Jeeves sits. Don’t sprint to him and cover his beautiful face with kisses. Turn, sing the final verse to the people two tables away, then one table away. _  
_

_After you, who could supply my sky of blue?_  
_After you, who could I love?_  
_After you, why should I take the time to try,_  
_For who else could qualify?_  
_After you, who?_

Courage, Bertram! Look right smack at him and sing your bally heart out!

 _Hold my hand and swear_  
_You'll never cease to care,_  
_For without you there what could I do?_  
_I could search years_  
_But who else could change my tears_  
_Into laughter after you?_

The audience applauded heartily, not as thunderously as for Miss Flambé but heartily enough. I bowed, and as arranged, the orchestra kept playing. Rather than exiting, I strolled up to Jeeves and held out my hand.

“Dance with me, Jeeves?”

His flabber was still flatteringly gasted. Nevertheless, he took my hand and flowed up from the table. Perhaps it was the heat in the small cabaret that made me feel faint. Whatever it was, I fell against him. Jeeves wrapped his other arm around my waist and we proceeded to hoof

“What _ho_ , sir,” he murmured into my ear.

“Go get ‘em, Ginger!” Beryl yelled.

“Dance, fools, dance!” Flame called out.

“I suggest we ‘give them what they want’, sir.”

We embellished our dance with a few swirls and turns, his arm about my waist, spinning me out, then spinning me back again. We finished with an absolutely corking dip. His face above me was slightly flushed, his eyes bright.

“Everybody, grab a partner and dance!” the bandleader called. The crowd rose to its feet and within minutes we were surrounded by dancing couples. For the most part men with women, however the couples were dotted with men with men, women with women.

We swayed together. Jeeves felt as I remembered, moved as I remembered. He was wearing an unfamiliar gray suit but his wonderful smell was sweetly familiar. His physical presence was causing the corpus to quiver with desire. Lower Wooster started to make itself known.

“I missed you so much, Jeeves,” I said into his neck. “Where have you been?”

“Lost, sir.”

“Oh...” My throat constricted. We deliquesced against each other, if deliquesced is the word I want. Melting like ice cream that’s fallen onto hot pavement is what I mean.

“ _When I go away from you, the world beats dead like a slackened drum_ ,” he said so softly into my ear I could barely hear it.

“Heartbreak stinks, Jeeves.”

“Indeed, sir, it does.”

The music ended, there was applause from the masses, and another tune kicked in. It was the perfect selection, “It Had To Be You”.

I lay the coconut on his shoulder, only mildly disconcerted by the feeling of the blonde wig. He brushed my forehead with his chin. The fabric of his suit coat was softer than the rough wool of his tailcoat. “Please come back, Jeeves. Life isn’t worth living without you. Even if you want everything to go back the way it was.”

“I want to come back, sir.” A long, thick bulge pushed against my thigh. “My place is by your side.”

“Right now your place is on top of me,” I muttered. “Come on.” I grabbed his hand and we walked off the dance floor. 

Beryl was hopping up and down, clapping.

“Oh, if only you could have seen yourselves! It was so romantic!  You see, Jeeves, Bertie’s just fine—even better now!” She hugged herself. “I wish Gerald had seen this!”

Flame stepped in front of her, eyeing Jeeves. “Well, hello there, big boy,” she purred. “Introduce us, Bertie dear.”

“Jeeves, this is Miss Flambé. Miss Flambé, this is Jeeves.” He gave a slight bow. We still held hands.

“I am very pleased to meet you at last, Miss Flambé.”

“Please, call me Flame!” She ran a finger over her red lower lip. “You boys look like you need to be alone.”

“Oh, no, perish the thought!” I lied, not wishing to be un- _preux._

“Bertie, darling, Auntie Flame knows two men who want to screw each other silly when she sees them. Use my dressing room. Be my guest. But don’t break anything. I’m ever so fond of my _bric a brac_.”

“Thank you!” I gasped. Lower Wooster gave an enthusiastic twitch. “Flame, you’re a wonder!”

 “I’ve been meaning to ask you, Flame, what is your real name?” asked Beryl.

Flame’s nostrils flared. “The name I was _born_ with,” she drawled, making it clear that it was no longer her name, “was awful. Absolutely not on.”

“What was it?” Beryl persisted.

“Reginald. _Ugh_!”

“A wise decision, Miss Flame,” said Jeeves.

“If you will excuse us—“ I interrupted. “Shall we, Jeeves?”

“That would be most agreeable, sir.”

Jeeves and I practically galloped to her dressing room.

 

 

Fred Astaire singing "After You, Who" from the stage show 'The Gay Divorce'

 

 

 And for fun, Bessie Smith singing "Need A Little Sugar In My Bowl"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _When I go away from you_  
>  _The world beats dead_  
>  _Like a slackened drum._  
>  From 'The Taxi' by Amy Lowell, an American poet who lived from 1874 to 1925.
> 
> Bessie Smith was an African-American blues singer, known in the 1920s and 1930s as the Empress Of The Blues.


	31. Ignoring The Wrinkles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jeeves and Bertie are reunited. Bertie tries to get dressed, but lust makes it difficult.
> 
> NC-17

Just as I was about to hurl myself at the nearest Jeeves-sized object, Flame swung open the dressing room door.

“Oi! Hold up!”

“I beg your pardon?” I managed in a strangled voice, nearly falling over a makeup chair. I had been looking forward to undressing the nearest Jeeves-sized object as well. He cut a dashing figure in his finely tailored three piece gray suit. His hair, I realized with a shock, was _sans_ brilliantine. I rather liked it. It looked far more like hair than like a shiny shell.

“You are not touching this man until I get him undressed,” she trilled at Jeeves.

“Undressing me is precisely why we are alone, woman!” I’m not ashamed to admit I sounded like a whining child, because that’s how I felt. Flame wouldn’t let me have my delicious sweet—er, Jeeves.

“Not when it’s my dress and Fine Crystal’s wig, it’s not.” Flame ankled in, turned me around smartly and began working on the fastenings in the back. “This cost two weeks’ wages, and if you think I’m going to let that gorgeous hunk of man get those big mitts on it, you have another think coming, missy!”

“Please hurry it up, old chap?” I demanded. “Er, old girl.”

Jeeves watched as Flame guided me out of the dress. “Stay!” she said, hand up, as though he were a hunting dog. My, but Flame could give Jeeves a run for his money when it came to stripping the young master! She had me down to my drawers and undervest  in the wink of an kohl lined eye. Speaking of kohl lined eyes, she grabbed a towel, smeared my face with cold cream, and wiped the makeup off my pan as roughly as a Turkish bath masseur with a bad hangover.

“Bertie, sweetheart, you need to put your clothes on. The Ripe Cherry can’t afford to give the coppers something to hang us all by.  It hasn’t happened yet, but a girl can never be too careful.”

“Indeed.” To anyone else Jeeves looked his usual composed self. However, the slight flare of his nostrils and the almost unnoticeable sideways tilt of his head was a virtual scream of passion. Plus, the hands politely behind his back were tightly clenched.

Flame rubbed my mouth a bit harder than she needed to. “I don’t care what you two do, but keep your clothes on.”

She rolled the towel into a ball and tossed it onto the dressing table, causing Jeeves to wince. She batted her eyelashes at him. “If Bertie isn’t enough for you, let me know if you’re looking for something _hot_ , big, butch and bona.”

Jeeves shimmered to the costume rack, and organized my clothes. “Very good, madam.”

“It’s not madam, it’s _miss!_ ”

“Very good, miss.”

 Dress over her shoulder, she peeled off the blonde wig and put it on a wig stand that was in a row of the things, each decorated with an artificial mane. My sweat-soaked hair was sticking up at all angles. Thank goodness none of my family or friends could see me now.

“There!” She gazed around the dressing room. “Do _not_ use my cold cream to slick yourselves up. Do that at home.” She opened the door. “Lock the door. Carry on.” With a light wave of her hand, she was gone.

“A most sagacious person, sir,” Jeeves said, his voice unsteady. In a trice, he locked the door and materialized in front of me.

When I had pictured our big love scene, we were supposed to fling our arms around each other, swear eternal devotion, then backbend into a kiss. 

However, rather than tender words exchanged, bodies were locked together, lips ditto, hands grabbed places located below the lower back. Absence made not only the heart grow fonder, but also of the other bits as well. The smell of cold cream was disconcerting but not entirely unpleasant.

“Sir,” Jeeves gasped against my mouth, “I have to get you dressed.”

“You’re right, Jeeves,” I gasped back. “Wait a few minutes?”

“We can’t risk it—(kiss)—sir—(kiss)—we can’t put everyone in peril.”

Outside, the orchestra was playing “Chasing Rainbows.”

Still frantically kissing and tangled together, Jeeves guided us as we hopped toward the costume rack, in a sort of awkward three-legged race. Somehow we made it. One arm around my waist, Jeeves yanked his head away and took my shirt in one hand, giving it a hard flap to knock any dust off. Speaking of shirts, I did my best to chew his nipple through his. He pushed me away, holding up the shirt. When I held out my arms, Jeeves draped it on me as he kissed his way across my upper back and shoulders. This was a far more topping scene than any my imagination had provided. For one thing, we were much noisier, gasping and grunting, our lips smacking along flesh. For another, clumsier. Jeeves tried to wrestle me into my clothes while we both groped and grabbed at what we could. My imagination could take a hike; I much preferred this version.

Actually, Jeeves was the one trying to wrestle me into my clothes, even if he could not refrain from kissing and nibbling me while he was at it. He sucked at my neck as he buttoned up my shirt. “Sir, please,” he mumbled when I again grabbed the seat of his trousers and pulled him against me. “I must do my duty.” Jeeves dragged his wet mouth across my cheek.

“Your duty is to let the young master fondle you.”

“After—after—oh, dear—after you are fully dressed— _oh!_ —sir!”

He yanked my trousers off the rack in a rough way that shocked me. I had no idea he was capable of such behavior toward clothes! I let go of him and stepped into them, then nearly collapsed when Jeeves proceeded to lick his way up my legs. My stiff-stander was harder than I could remember it being. If he touched it I would explode. “Don’t...button...trousers,” I managed.

“Very good, sir” he said, rubbing his head against my hip, mere inches away from lower Wooster. When he stood up, I put my arms around him, impeding his progress back to the costume rack, including grinding myself against his hip. He kissed me and thrust his tongue into my mouth.

Without taking his mouth from mine, Jeeves got my braces on, after which he grabbed my sides and squeezed them so hard it hurt, causing me to give a delighted, extremely manly squeal. Then came the waistcoat. I took his wrist and kissed the pulse point, feeling the rapid beat. I sucked the man’s lower lip and was rewarded with a groan that almost knocked the wig stands over. Streaks of joy skittered along my nerve endings, up and down the corpus, but mostly in the area I am most fond of. It felt like my heart would burst, holding and kissing Jeeves like this. More important, he was holding and kissing me back, with an unrestrained passion I had never seen before, even in our previous outings.

I moved the hands under his suit jacket, under his waistcoat, found his shirt, and tugged it out of his trousers. Then I rubbed the hands over the bare soft flesh of his back.

There was a filthy chaise lounge along the wall. It had presumably once been yellow but had been worn and stained to a sort of foul gray green. We tumbled onto it, arms and legs going in all directions. We ended up side by side, with Jeeves on the outer edge. He gripped the back of the chaise with his left hand and held himself up with the other hand on the floor. I was deliciously squished between Jeeves and the back of the chaise, my head on his arm, my own arms pinned up against my chest. Only our mouths and tongues were involved as we kissed, slowly then quickly, ferociously, then tenderly. We kissed noses, cheeks, chins, ears. Jeeves made the sweetest happy sounds, muted tiny “ohs”. I was also making my own particular set of noises, far less refined but equally heartfelt. I chewed his chin and bit his neck. I craned my neck to kiss his temple. Jeeves didn’t even seem to mind that his suit was getting hopelessly wrinkled from our exertions. This Wooster was ridiculously pleased that he could make the impeccable Jeeves _ignore wrinkles_!

“Oh, sir,” he moaned.

“You have my wholehearted agreement, Jeeves!” I replied. Despite the risk of suffocation from having my branchiae compressed, I rolled so that I was under Jeeves. Sure enough, I was rewarded with shortness of breath that in no way impeded my lust. Lower Wooster and lower Jeeves were reunited, causing their owners to writhe against each other. Jeeves switched hands so that the right one held on to the back of the chaise and the left one was on the floor.

“Sir,” he ground out between clenched teeth, “I’m going to spend in my trousers.”

“That makes two of us!”

“No—no—the fabric of your suit is far too fine to do that.”

Letting go of the back of the chaise, Jeeves simultaneously shoved off of me and rolled onto the floor with a thump, then onto his back, so gracefully that he might have been a ballerina.

“Jeeves! Are you hurt?”

“No, sir,” he panted.

“You’re a bally acrobat,” I said, tucking that knowledge into the back of the grey matter for later. I scooted off the chaise so that I was again on top of him. His large body prevented any part of this Wooster from touching the grimy floor.

“Your suit,” I managed, before a Jeevesian tongue took possession of the inside of my mouth and Jeevesian arms wrapped around me so tightly my lungs were as compressed as when he lay atop me.

“Jeeves—can’t—breathe—“

He loosened his hold but his tongue had taken up residence in my mouth. This landlord was fine with said tongue staying there long enough to redecorate. We were both shuddering with passion, hands all over each other, nether regions rolling together. My trousers were still unfastened but my todger complained about the tightness of my drawers. I pulled my flies apart and moved my drawers down so that it could spring free. “Undo your flies, man.”

With the same finesse he displayed in all things, Jeeves unbuttoned his trousers and pulled out his glorious stiff-stander, rosy red and hard as a flagpole. Bertram knew what to do; I grabbed it and pumped it enthusiastically. “Lie on your side away from me,” I instructed, letting go. As soon as he had, I resumed my activity, twice as fast.  Once again, a stream of obscenities burst from his luscious lips, here paraphrased: “Those who tell the stories rule society! It is not so much what is on the table that matters, as what is on the _chairs_!”

He stiffened, eyes fixed toward the opposite wall, then let out a great shout and spent. It splattered across the floor and the dirty little rug. I followed, ears ringing, eyes tightly shut, but it splashed against his back.

We lay on the floor, puffing and panting.

“Golly,” I said after a bit.

For several minutes he did not speak. He lay there, panting. Finally he lifted his head and looked over his shoulder back at me. “You’re barefoot, sir. We need to put on your socks and shoes."

“Shoes don't matter, lover of mine.”

“Shoes always matter, sir. Particularly when the floor is as soiled as this.”

“We’ve been rolling on it and I’ve spent all over your back. I think we’re past the point of worrying about the dirt.”

There was a loud knock on the door.

“Hey!” came an unrecognized voice. “Who’s in there! I need my goddamned wig back! Flame!”

“That would be Fine Crystal, sir.” He called back, doing an excellent imitation of Flame: “Hold your horses, honey! That wig isn’t going anywhere!” He turned to me. “Sir, it behooves us to finish dressing immediately, before Miss Crystal breaks down the door. I saw her backstage and she is, to put it colloquially, a bruiser.”

“Very good, Jeeves!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "It is not so much what is on the table that matters, as what is on the chairs!” - William S. Gilbert, of Gilbert & Sullivan.
> 
> "Those who tell the stories rule society." - Plato


	32. The Giraffe And The Roasted Chicken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Fallon's scheme is discovered.
> 
> Comments make me squeal.

 We walked in the cold night air away from the Ripe Cherry, carefully keeping a safe distance from each other. Despite Jeeves’s best efforts at getting us both tidied up, our suits as wrinkled as if we had stuffed them into a bin and pulled them out again. Fortunately our long heavy overcoats hid our lack of elepha—ellip—elegance, that’s the word I want. We suffered from a profound shortage of elegance. In fact, our attire leaned more toward the chimney-sweep than the dashing man about town. Seeing Jeeves in a soft wool felt hat rather than a bowler made the old ticker Charleston. He looked dashing rather than domestic, a veritable Cary Grant of the back pantry.

Fine Crystal was indeed a bruiser. She thrust us aside in her search for her blonde wig. He had not noticed us leaving; in fact, I don’t believe the chap—er, filly—er, chap—these pronouns are unusually difficult, are they not? All scrambled, like eggs, only not sick-making—where was I—?

Oh! Fine Crystal was hardly aware of our existence at all, so firmly was his—her—fury directed at Flame. In the face of such bugle bead-bedecked frenzy, we barely escaped with our lives.

Miss Flambé gave me a hug before we left. She gave Jeeves a hug and a half, which he bore in stalwart fashion. Beryl, knowing better than to hug Jeeves, stood nearby, a proud smile on her delectable pan.

“How on earth did you track down Jeeves?” I asked her.

She gave a smug shrug. It was the smuggest of shrugs; a smugger shrug could not have been found anywhere for love nor money. “You told me that Jeeves has relatives everywhere. We started with the Northumberland Gaiety and worked our way through Jeeveses and Silversmiths until we found him!” She giggled and turned to Jeeves. “I claimed to be your fiancée, cruelly discarded at the altar, seeking to sue you for breach of promise unless I saw you again. Gerald pretended to be my outraged father.”

“Yes, so I was told numerous times,” Jeeves said with a hint of _froideur._

Beryl didn’t catch the hint, and went on. “I was going to say I was with child, but we didn’t to hurt Jeeves’s reputation _that_ badly.” Beryl looked up at him. “Be glad so many of your relatives don’t know the truth about you, Jeeves. Worked like a charm.” She paused. “Jeeves, you have a _lot_ of relatives.”

“Indeed, Miss..” He inclined the head. “Although I fear my reputation has been somewhat damaged, it was for the greater good. I am grateful for your perseverance.”   

“So, where have you been all of this time, old thing?”

“These last three days I have been lodging with my sister Daisy.”

“She runs Eldridge’s Tea Shop in Brixton!” Beryl piped up.

“Daisy insisted that I come work in her tea shop, sir.”

“You, Jeeves, a waiter? Wasting your gifts on the unwashed?”

“No, sir. Members of the general populace tend to be difficult to manage, particularly when there is Victoria sponge involved. I’ve been working in the kitchen, making pies and other comestibles. It keeps my hands busy. I did not tell Daisy why I had left your employment. She knew better than to ask.”

 “Jeeves, you’re a valet, you don’t want to make plum duff and spotted dick for a living, do you?”

“I do not, sir.”

“Darling girl, I can never thank you properly,” I said, embracing her in a fashion that would have gotten me engaged had I tried it with a different beazel. “You have gone above and beyond. The Wooster ancestors would be proud!”

“Don’t run away again, Jeeves,” Beryl warned. “It was too much work finding you the first time!”

With hearty cheerios and pip-pips to all and sundry, we floated out into the night.

We stopped a short distance away from the club. I got out my cigarette case, offered Jeeves a gasper. The man thanked me, and I lit it for him. It felt odd to light my erstwhile valet’s cigarette. Jeeves took a long drag, slowly exhaling it into the atmosphere in slow grey tendrils. I was entranced.

 “Jeeves, I wasn’t interested in that Neville-Elliot blight. Not in the least. Whatever designs he had on me, I had no intention of being the designed upon.”

I was rudely interrupted by a group of revelers in high spirits who had clearly been enjoying the high spirits at the Ripe Cherry.

“Wasn’t that something!” a woman shrilled. “I’m absolutely _scandalized_!”

“As are we all, Charlotte, as are we all!” a man brayed. “That Fine Crystal—she’s the stuff, eh?”

“Peverill, you sound utterly sordid!”

They continued out down the street. Jeeves broke the silence.

“I regret that I cannot return to the flat tonight, sir,” Jeeves said with a sigh.

“What? Of course you will, Jeeves, and you shall! Tie up the broken threads and let us go! You said your place is at my side!” Then I remembered. I had a valet _in situ_. “Dash it! I have a valet _in situ_.”

He paused. “I must take my leave. I am a valet, sir, dressed as a gentleman. We are together in an unsavory part of the city, where anyone might see or hear us. Someone might recognize you. I cannot risk your safety, sir. It is better that we part for the time being.”

“But—but—“ I spluttered. “You’re going to steal off like a thief in the suit of night, Jeeves?”

He drew a card from his pocket. “This is my sister’s telephone number. I am working in her tea shop from 6 AM until 10 PM. You may reach me there. Good night, sir.” And he vanished.

 

 

When I arrived at the flat Fallon took my hat and coat.

“Mr. Wooster!” Fallon gasped. “What _happened_ to you?”

In my anguish at being separated from Jeeves, it had slipped my mind that I had rolled around a grimy floor in most of my _habiliments_. They were liberally decorated with dirt, grit, makeup stains, and other substances I didn’t care to know about. “This? Funniest thing, Fallon, I decided to go for a late night stroll in Hyde Park, when a fat little tot came blasting out of the darkness and knocked me over into a hedge,” I caroled. “Never fear, the corpus was not harmed! Unfortunately I cannot say the same for my attire.”

Fallon did not have Jeeves’s keen eye for detail. It seemed to escape him that my suit jacket was clean, unlike everything else. However, he did notice that my overcoat was spic and span, as the Americans say.

“But your overcoat—“

“I wasn’t wearing my coat. I got too hot, you see.”

“But it’s cold outside, sir.” Fallon goggled at me. I goggled back. That was my story and I was sticking to it.

“Yes, it is. Draw me a bath, and make certain it is piping hot. After my tumble into the shrubbery, I require to relax in the warm and soothing.”

Was it my imagination, or did Fallon look more affrighted than usual? Mind you, he always looked affrighted. It was amazing that he could look even more affrighted-er. It must have taken a real effort.

“You’re home early, sir,” he said.

“I don’t recall saying when I would return, Fallon.”

“Yes, sir, I’m sorry, sir, um, I shouldn’t have presumed—“

“Off with you to the _salle de bain_!”

“Um—would you like a cup of tea, sir?”

Before I could say no, Fallon had hared off into the kitchen. I say! I needed a hot bath!

I thought I heard the back door of the flat open shortly after the villain’s _exeunt_. Was he running away? Had he reached his breaking point at last? Then I heard voices. Didn’t Fallon know he wasn’t supposed to entertain guests when I was in the flat?

Annoyed, I strode into the kitchen. Fallon’s expression was that of a terrified giraffe discovered washing its hooves in the zookeeper’s bathtub. The other gentleman in the kitchen was dressed in a white coat and chef’s hat. He held a large covered tray.

“Mr. Wooster!” Fallon gasped.

“What is this, Fallon?”

“Monsieur Wooster, allo!” said the chappie in the chef’s hat. He looked familiar.

“This? Um, it’s—it’s—it’s your food, sir. This is—“

“Jean Luc?” I gargled. “Chef Jean Luc, of Le Perroquet Dansant?”

With a flourish, Chef Jean Luc lifted the cover, revealing _poulet rôti, pommes de terre bouillies, haricot vertes, boeuf bourguignon,_ _Riz français,_ _salade verte_ _,_ and other comestibles.

“My dear _Maître de la casserole_ , it’s lovely of you to call, but the question remains: why?”

“You are a gentleman of refined palate, Monsieur,” he said appreciatively. “You have dined at my restaurant many times. It is a pleasure to cook for you.”

“Fallon—what is the meaning of this?”

He stared at the kitchen floor, which was still rather scorched. “Sir, I’m trying to learn how to cook, but, um, I’ve not got the knack of it yet. Mr. Jean Luc has been bringing food here. I’ve used the household food budget to pay for it.” Fallon raised troubled damp eyes to my face. “You won’t find a penny more than I’m allotted, sir. It was only until I got better at cooking.”

“So that’s why the cuisine has improved so! Fallon—“ I drew myself up, but then didn’t know what to say. If I told him to stop having Chef Jean Luc bring food to the flat, I would have to make do with Fallon’s attempts at cooking. The one meal Fallon made himself was breakfast, and that was enough to prove the man should not be turned loose among the pots and pans. My mouth opened and closed. I stared at my less-than-up-to-the-required-standard manservant. “Er, Fallon ah—dash it, good night. Thank you, Jean Luc, this Wooster thanks you for your service. I eagerly look forward to mangling your cuisine.”

“Good night, Monsieur!”

“Good night, sir.”

As I left the kitchen, I heard Fallon ask eagerly, “Did you bring any of that _creme brulee?”_

 

I spent a sleepless night reliving Jeeves’ and my encounter in Flame’s dressing room. And, to be euphemistic about it, reacting while reliving. Multiple times. In between said multiple times, the Wooster bean tried to work out what to do next. It wouldn’t be cricket to fire poor Fallon. Even after finding out a French chef was cooking my meals. I’d have to endure a man not up to the required standard while pining for the man I loved. There it was. I loved Jeeves. Moreover, unless I was much mistaken, Jeeves loved me. How else to explain how a man dedicated to the pinnacles of garment care allowing his suit to be soiled, wrinkled and, most of all, spent upon? It might not be most people’s idea of devotion, but...

Yes, there were countless reasons to dismiss Fallon, but in all fairness to the man, he was trying hard. His valet skills had improved, but not by much. Where would he go, if I fired him? Unemployed, wandering the streets of London, inevitably taking to drink. He would sit at the end of the bar, gloomily reciting the tale of his destruction to anyone who would listen. Alone in his tiny room, despair would overcome him, and he would take the coward’s way out.

No, Bertram could not condemn an innocent man to death, no matter how ineptly he dusted. I would have to stick it, no matter what. A feeling of charity warmed me, despite my dolor. Nobody could accuse me of selfishness, not when I was willing to suffer Fallon in order to keep him alive.

Tired Nature’s sweet restorer o’ertook me, to disturbing dreams of giraffes dropping burnt fried eggs on me from a great height.

 

“Good morning, sir!”

My eyes cracked open to a heretofore-unseen and unexpectedly ghastly sight. Fallon was smiling, It was not the same as Jeeves smiling; Jeeves didn’t smile because, well, Jeeves rarely smiles if anyone else is around. Fallon had done no more than stare, bug-eyed, whenever he was in the same room I occupied.

Unlike the majority of the population, a smile did not improve the man’s appearance. A large amount of large, yellow, uneven teeth presented themselves. If I was going to bet on a horse with that set of teeth, I would have changed my mind after one quick look in its mouth.

I glanced away, lest my stomach refuse the Darjeeling. After my athletic evening and sleepless night, my head felt full of that sticky mud one steps into when one slips barefoot into a pond on  a spring day. I sucked down a helping mouthful of tea.

Fallon made a noise. He didn’t give a tiny, subtle cough. Instead: “Uhmmmm...sir?”

“Yes, what is it, Fallon?” I looked all the way up at him, defying my stomach’s wishes. The face, with its watery blue eyes, long neck atop a crane-like body, was not what I enjoyed seeing first thing _anna meridium_. But one must bear up under the strain, what?

“Mr. Wooster, sir, I—um, please don’t be angry with me, sir—um—

“Out with it, man. Did you blow up the kitchen again?”

“Oh, no, Mr. Wooster, sir!” He shook his head violently. “Um, sir, I’ve got another job.”

“Eh?” I sat up straighter in the bed. “Somebody hired _you_? Are you pulling my leg?”

He looked wounded. “The Clarkson Agency called first thing this morning. An elderly gentleman, The Earl of Clifford, needs a valet as soon as possible. Lord Clifford, um, lives in a townhouse, with a full staff, so, um, all I’d have to do is be his valet.” Fallon’s face was nearly split in half by his atrocious grin. “His hobby is gardening, sir. There’s one behind the house, and a garden on the roof. He, uh, needs help with his, uh, bending.”

“Bending? What on earth is that? Some sort of athletic activity involving a crouch?”

“Bending down, sir. His Lordship suffers from lumbago, so I’m told. Don’t be angry, sir, but I said yes before I’d had a chance to think.”

“Oh?” My sleep-clouded noodle suddenly grasped the gist of the giraffe’s gibberish. “ _Oh!_ It sounds like a match made in heaven, Fallon.”

He shuffled from one hoof to the other. “They’d like me to start today, sir.”

A miracle! Fallon could no longer be my valet! I didn’t have to ruin the poor fellow’s life! All was brilliant sunshine and birds cheeping and butterflies landing on posies. No more Fallon!

“I’m sorry to do this to you, sir, leaving without a replacement.”

“There will be one ere long! Lay out my blue pinstripe, Fallon, and my maroon tie, then hie yourself to the kitchen and fix my eggs and b.! It’s a beautiful day!”

I grabbed my dressing gown and capered out to the telephone table. It was the work of a minute—well, several minutes, actually, I’d forgotten where I’d put the card—to call the Jeeves’s female sibling’s tea shop. My heart beat in triple-time as I listened to the phone ringing at the other end of the line.

“Good morning, Eldridge’s Tea Shop,” a woman’s voice answered. It was mellifluous, and rather reminded me of someone I knew.

“What ho, what ho, what ho!” I sang out. “Is Jeeves there?”

“Jeeves.”

“Yes, _Jeeves_.”

“My brother Reginald?”

“Yes! Yes, yes, yes! Reginald! May I speak to him, Miss Jeeves?”

“It’s Mrs. Eldridge. Jeeves is my maiden name. What do you want with him?”

Crikey, did she think I was a bookie Jeeves had stiffed? A policeman?

“I am his former employer, Bertram Wooster," I said with considerable hauteur. "Put him on the line.”

“Oh! Good morning, Mr. Wooster. I’m sorry, Reginald's gone out. I don’t know when he will return. Shall I have him ring you back?”

Disappointment filled my insides. “If you would, thank you.” I rang off and sat down on the chair next to the telephone table until my soon-to-be-not my manservant told me breakfast had been bunged on the table.

After Fallon had served my breakfast, he requested that he might be allowed to pack. I encouraged him to do so, and with all haste. I tried not to sound too elated over the whole thing.

I thumbed through a magazine— _Picturegoer_ —with a fetching photograph of Joan Crawford on the cover, promoting her new picture, “Dancing Lady” with Clark Gable. I tried to imagine Gable tap-dancing and came a cropper. In the far distance I could hear the occasional small crash coming from the servants’ quarters.

“Thank you, sir, good bye, sir, I apologize for leaving so suddenly, really, I’m sorry, I hope I haven’t inconvenienced you.”  Fallon would kept thanking me until the next day unless I closed the door. I did so, and went straight to the telephone. Jeeves was still not back at his sister’s shop. Damn the man, where was he?

I tried an hour later, still no Jeeves. An hour later, still no Jeeves. In frustration, I legged it for the Drones.

 

It was no use. The Drones held no allure. I was compelled to return to the flat, and the telephone. The only reason Jeeves’s sister Daisy wasn’t rude to me by now was that she respected the feudal spirit. Otherwise she would have told me to go and boil my head. Dash it! Where was Jeeves?

The doorbell rang, and rang again. I answered it.

Jeeves stood without, in uniform and bowler hat, the slightest wisp of merriment in his eyes.

“I was sent by the agency, sir. I was given to understand you needed a valet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jeeves's sister Daisy and her tea shop are taken from innocentsmith's [Mr. Wooster And The Restorative Preparation](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15013). I loved the idea that her name is Daisy.
> 
> In a musical that was not produced, P.G. Wodehouse wrote a song for Jeeves which revealed he was from Brixton.


	33. The Return of Jeeves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What it says on the tin.
> 
> Plus smut.
> 
> A/N Thanks to everyone for all of the comments and kudos! It's wonderful to know this little thingamajig has such a nice audience.

“Right-o, come in, come in, come in!” I gabbled. Jeeves shut the door behind him, locked it, leaned down and gave me a smacker that had me thrown on highest bliss. He was carrying his valise, which he carefully put on the floor. Then his arms wrapped around me and pulled me into an tight embrace. “You blighter!” I said, emitting a most unmanly giggle. “You rogue! You rapscallion! _You_ arranged Fallon’s new job!”

He inclined the head. “I merely made some inquiries in the right places. I am pleased to have returned, sir.” To show his appreciation, he kissed me in an extremely French manner. “Sir—“

“Bertram!”

“ _No_ , sir.”

“So, shall we samba to the old master bedroom, Jeeves?”

He gave a hint of a smile as he hung up his bowler and overcoat. He turned...

And saw the flat.

Jeeves staggered. His dark eyes widened. He moaned, staring at the sitting room like a man who had seen the Wreck of the Hesperus land on his brand new Austin automobile.

I helped the poor man to a nearby chair. “It’s not that bad, Jeeves!” I protested.

“Potting soil...there is _potting soil_ on the carpet,” he whispered as if he had witnessed Jack The Ripper in action. Horrified, don’t you know, and yet strangely awed. “Everything is in the wrong place. There are ashes in the hearth. The cushions are squashed!” He buried his face in his hands.

“Buck up, Jeeves, you can attend to all this later.” I laid a soothing hand on his broad shoulder. “As I recall, we were about to retire to the bedroom, what?”

Jeeves looked up at me, agony writ large on his noble features. “Sir, I must put the flat to rights. I cannot rest until I do.”

“I say! We’re reunited! Let joy be unconfined, Jeeves!”

One could tell the cove’s joy was decidedly confined. In fact, it was in the depths of the ocean inside a diving bell. Before I could say another word, Jeeves was flashing about the sitting room, placing ornaments in their proper place, removing flowers past their prime, plumping cushions, and so many other activities it exhausts me to recount them. I’ve never seen such a whirlwind of activity, and I’ve been to the Drones on New Year’s Eve.

“Jeeves!” I protested. “Jeeves!”

He paused from gathering up newspapers. “Sir?”

“You know—“ I gestured with both hands and my head toward the bedroom.

“Sir, I should dearly love to put your penis in my mouth, but there is dust on the mantelpiece.”

“Here, there’s no call for that sort of language!”

“I am sorry, sir, I confess, I am overcome.” He continued to clean the room at alarming speed. Before I could say Jack Robi-whatsit, Jeeves was hoovering the carpet.

I gave it up as a bad job and sullenly betook myself to said master bedroom. I flounced onto the bed and picked up my book, the latest Agatha Christie. I had just reached the part where Hercule Poirot examines the dead man’s train compartment and finds a note with the words '-member little Daisy Armstrong' on it when my reading was interrupted by a piercing wail like a bull moose bellowing to its mate.

I leapt off the bed, heart in my throat. “Jeeves!”

He was nowhere to be seen. Panicked, I ran into the kitchen.

Jeeves was standing, frozen in  shock, glazed eyes looking around the kitchen. “What...what _happened_ , sir?” He was holding himself upright by a hand gripping the sink, knuckles white under the strain.

I had forgotten. Fallon had blown up the bally kitchen. Although the stove had been repaired, there was still black carbon on nearly every surface. “Er, the kitchen got blown up.” I faked a laugh. “Jolly funny, what? Poor old Fallon got his eyebrows singed off.”

Jeeves turned to me. Others might not have discerned the expression on his face, but from the furrow between the brows and the miniscule downturn of his luscious mouth I could tell it was a mixture of anger and determination. “It is not a cause for humor, sir. I advise you to go to your club for the rest of the day and evening. This will take some time.”

Having Jeeves speak to me like this was a shocking change. Who was the master and who was the bally servant? I intended to reestablish the natural order, but what emerged from my mouth was a high-pitched whine. “But I don’t want to go to my club. I wish to make whoopee with you! Unless we tear off our clothes in the next thirty minutes, I shall be left with indigo danglers!”

“I regret that I will not be able to put my mind to anything else until this situation is rectified.” He exited to the back pantry, from whence came a clatter of buckets and whatever thingamajigs servants clean things with. Survival instinct told me not to go after him.

I returned to the bedroom and hunkered down with Miss Christie. But staying hunkered proved impossible. After several passengers on the Orient Express claimed to have seen a woman in a red kimono, the book was tossed onto the bed. “Who cares about a bally red kimono?” I muttered, lighting myself a gasper and propelling myself back to the kitchen.

The kitchen was so clean it was blinding. Dishes were washed, fresh dish cloth things were hung about here and there. Even the curtains looked suspiciously whiter. Wearing an apron and thick gloves, Jeeves stood on a ladder, ferociously scraping black soot off the ceiling. The pleasure it gave me to watch his muscular arms and back moving with such determination was outweighed by the longing for his m.a and b. to be lying underneath the young master. On impulse, I wrapped my arms around one strong thigh. I couldn’t help kissing the grey pinstripes. Jeeves stopped and looked down at me.

“Please stop doing that to my leg, sir. I do not wish to risk breaking the ladder.”

“Jeeves, dammit, you’ve been back for hours and hours and one kiss is not going to last me! Come down from there at once!” I rapped my knuckle against the ladder. “The ceiling isn’t going anywhere.”

When that didn’t move him, I moved around and gently mouthed his lower Jeeves.

That got results! Jeeves was instantly down the ladder, gloves off, large hands cradling my head at the base of my skull. He proceeded to kiss me, really putting his back into it, until I was a squirmy mass of happiness.

“How about you scrape _me_ , old thing?” I said in a voice that I hoped was sexy. Not the most poetic words I’ve uttered in my time, but I plead that I was a tad out of my lemon with passion. I hopped up on the ladder’s bottom step to align our todgers, and gave the good old slide upwards. Jeeves’s hands obligingly slipped under my billowy portions, his mouth continued to plaster itself on mine, and then he lifted me up and set said billowy portions on the kitchen table. By jingo, this was more like what I’d had in mind! Acting on their own accord, my legs wrapped around his waist. I’d had no idea my legs were so take-charge. We continued to _baiser français_ for some time, with all of the pent-up desire our separation had engendered. Which was rather a large amount, as you could imagine if you had ever suffered from a extreme lack of Jeeves for an extended period of time. His hands raked through my hair, and the panting breaths he did against my lips made me feel quite boomps-a-daisy. I explored all of the myriad pleasures caressing and stroking Jeeves’s shoulders, back, and upper arms gave me. They were myriad, I mean to say, feeling those powerful muscles moving under the Wooster paws was sublime! The only thing that would make it better was if there was not a white cotton shirt, waistcoat and braces in my way.

My legs in position around his waist and his hands in position under my billowy portions, I held on with my arms around him as he carried me out into the sitting room as easily as if he was carrying a b. and s.

“Sir, if you would allow me to take my leave. It will not be long,” he purred into my ear, then kissed it gently. I disentangled myself and dropped into a heap on the sofa. On which, I might add, the cushions were perfectly plumped.

To my surprise, he did not head for the master’s bedroom. Instead he skimmed in the direction of his quarters. Less than a minute later, Jeeves returned and nodded to let me know I should follow him. I bounded off the sofa.

“I say!” I babbled, following him down the corridor. “Lead the way, by Jove! Bertram is at your disposal!”

Toddling after him, I remembered that strange and wonderful night I sat on the floor next to his doorway, telling him about the party after the show at the Pink Slipper. “I say, why aren’t we going to my bedroom? The bed’s bigger.”

He turned back toward me. “I have not yet attended to your bedroom, sir. I would be fatally distracted. If you will allow me—“ Jeeves opened the door and I went in.

I’d seen his room the night he left but not registered what it contained, because it did not contain the important thing, i.e. Jeeves. A good-sized comfortable bed, albeit for one person, an armchair retired from my sitting room, and other things one usually puts in a room.

Jeeves shut the door and locked it. It seemed a bit unnecessary, but he was naturally a cautious person. It wouldn’t do to have one of my friends listening at the front door and possibly hear the noises we were making.

He kissed me above each eyebrow. I closed my eyes and put my hands on his shoulders, lest I drop to the ground. Love and lust had taken over the young master’s corpus to the extent that legs had decided they were no longer in charge, in fact they were superfluous. Jeeves helped me shrug off my suit jacket, then folded it. Once again, my nostrils were filled with _eau d’Jeeves_ and what a topping _eau_ it was! My lower lip felt oddly ticklish and twitched in the strangest way. I lightly bit it to still the tickles as Jeeves kissed across my forehead. A small moan vibrated on my scalp. Lower Wooster was suddenly lamppost hard, so suddenly I was a bit startled.

“Ah,” I stated. “Muhh.” My only excuse for being unable to say anything more intelligent was that my higher intellect, such as it was, had been overtaken by my lower Wooster and had joined my legs in agreeing it was superfluous. All I could do was make noises of various kinds and let Jeeves kiss me. He again grasped my bottom and pulled me against him. He had to bend his legs slightly so that our pricks were aligned. Once they were in position, he proceeded to grind against me. Lower Jeeves was also hard, so much so that his trousers were pulled tight across the front. As were mine. In fact, it felt as though my trouser buttons were fighting a losing battle.

And that’s when matters kicked into high gear.  I pushed him away and stripped off, almost tearing the textiles in my haste to get naked. It may come as a heart-stopping shock to you, but under the right circumstances, Bertram can undress himself. Maybe without the skill and precision of my valet, but I put quite a bit of ginger into the effort, and this nicely compensated for my lack of finesse. Jeeves followed suit, pardon the pun.

It was almost comical, our gasping and panting as though we were in some kind of race to see who could be naked first. Naturally, Jeeves won. If I had won, it would have torn the very fabric of the universe, what? And _then_ what would happen, eh?

We were both in nothing but the skin we were born in, as well as other things that developed later in life. I stared at Jeeves’s gorgeous body as he stared at my somewhat less gorgeous one. We came together, all groping hands and frantic mouths. I grabbed his heavy pectorals and squeezed, the hair on them brushing my fingers, then I bent down and took his nipple into my mouth. It hardened, inspiring me to suckle it and to rub the other one lightly. He cried out, his hands running up and down my back.

Jeeves flipped me onto the bed and positioned me so that I faced away from him on all fours.

“I’m sorry, sir, but I cannot wait any longer,” he said, gasping. Bending forward, his huge warm body over me, he raised me so that my hands could grasp the iron bed frame.

He knelt behind me on the bed, and moved my legs apart. He licked and sucked the inside of each of my thighs, making me yip like a terrier. Then he pushed my wet thighs together and shoved his prick between them. I braced myself, but nearly fell on my face at the first strong thrust, my buttocks going upwards. Most undignified, but I was out of my coconut with lust, which made it difficult to give a fig about my dignity. I pulled myself up, only to be pushed forward again by his mighty hips. By the next thrust, I braced one hand on the mattress and the other on the bed frame, otherwise I might have been shoved right through the iron bars, and then where would I be? Not enjoying myself, that’s for certain.

“Whose lover are you?” he demanded as he thrust forward.

“I think it should be obvious that--"

"Whose lover are you?"

"I'm...yours?"

“You are _mine._ ” I’d never heard that tone in his voice before. It made it clear that he was taking possession in no uncertain terms. Bertram liked this a great deal, oh, he did. 

"I'm your lover!" I cried, catching on.

“Who do you belong to?”

"I belong to you--Ooooh!"

His hands gripped my hips to keep my body still as he pounded me. He held me with all of his strength, all I had to do was keep my legs closed as tight as humanly possible.

“No one else?” Jeeves continued to slam forward, panting.

I gasped out the next words in time to his thrusts: “No one else! Only you! I swear it! Only you!"

Raising up on my knees, I leaned my head back against his collarbone and snaked my arms back around his body to help me hold on. Jeeves gasped obscenities, paraphrased: “The function of prayer is not to influence God, but rather to change the nature of the one who prays!” His heart beat like a bass drum in a marching band, his lungs puffed. I rode the waves of pleasure along with his powerful hips until his muscles tensed and shook. He gave a great lunge and groan and came off, his hips lifting me right off the bed as he did so.

Jeeves let go and I fell forward onto the bed, my own stiff-stander throbbing with the need for release.

“Good lord, touch me,” I begged.

“Suck my finger,” he said in a ragged voice. Puzzled, I did as he asked. I was harder than I had ever been in my life, it was utter torture. He moaned again as I sucked.

The finger left my mouth, and then I felt it touching me an in orifice which is rarely touched by anyone but my physician. And then it slid in. I gasped in surprise and discomfort. Not really surprise, I had done this before, but with a bit of warning beforehand. At first uncomfortable, but a bit it felt quite nice. It slid further in, wiggled, found my prostate, and rubbed the gland until great waves of pleasure crashed through me. I shall again paraphrase my cries to save myself humiliation: “Pale hands I loved beside the Shalimar! Goodness gracious! What, what!"

The talented finger rubbed again and again inside me until I came off with a cry of relief. The chappie would have to change his sheets.

Murmuring words of love, Jeeves gathered my boneless form into his arms, kissing my neck, my ears, my cheeks. “Forgive me, sir, please.”

“For what? Dismiss the thought, my one true love, it was transient—transparent—what’s the word I want?”

“Transcendent?”

“Transcendent! As in transcended every moment we’ve spent together so far, and I expect us to keep transcending.” I paused. "You're not wearing brilliantine." His hair was absolutely fluffy, by Jove, but it was highly dignified fluff.

"Yes, sir, you seemed to prefer it. So temporarily I will abstain."

I shifted so that I could look into his eyes.

"I love you, Jeeves."

"And I you, sir."

"Call me Bertram."

"No, sir."

What did I tell you? Stubborn as an ox.

 

 

 This is one of only two songs Rudolph Valentino recorded. As you can hear, he has a thick accent and a so-so singing voice. The video is a montage from "The Sheik", his smash hit of 1921.

 

 This version is by Richard Tauber, a successful operatic tenor who immigrated to the UK to escape the Nazis.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Thrown in highest bliss" is a misquotation of Milton. From _Paradise Lost_
> 
> "“The function of prayer is not to influence God, but rather to change the nature of the one who prays!" - Soren Kierkegaard.
> 
> "Pale hands I loved beside the Shalimar" - The Kashmiri Song, a poem set to music by Amy Woodforde-Finden. It was a hit in 1902, and was a standard through the 1940s.
> 
> Rudolph Valentino, born Rodolfo Alfonso Raffaello Pierre Filibert Guglielmi di Valentina d'Antonguella, was a romantic idol to millions of women in the 1920s, the first "Latin Lover". After his untimely death at the age of 31, his funeral was mobbed by over 10,000 people, most of them women. There was a riot in which windows were smashed and police were called in. 
> 
> Richard Tauber was a popular lyric tenor, comfortable with operatic roles, popular music and operetta. When the Germans annexed Austria in 1938, he fled to England.


	34. The Soppiness Of Bertram

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bertie and Jeeves engage in lustful activities and Bertie learns of Jeeves's great love.
> 
> NC-17
> 
> Nearing the finish line, I promise!

The alarm clock next to Jeeves’s bed woke me with an unpleasant start. Swimming to consciousness, I became aware that I was pinned between a wall of Jeeves and a wall of wall. Why did so many of my intimate moments with Jeeves leave me squashed one way or another? Well, ballet dancers never attracted me so that’s fate, I suppose.

The wall of Jeeves this time was his back. His pale shoulder sloped high above. He shifted, and silenced the alarm. It was 5 in the morning. I had heard tales of 5 in the morning existing, but I had never believed it until now, when I saw it with my own eyes. His sleep-warmed skin against mine inspired me to apply lips to a Jeevesvian shoulder blade. Jeeves gave a sigh, and moved slightly _backwards_ , pressing me harder against the blighted wall! In reaction, I bit him. The desired effect was not effected. Rather, he sighed again and pushed backwards even harder, dash it!

“Jeeves!” I yipped, pushing him. “Move over, man!”

A complaining grunt was the response, but he scooted forward a bit. Again, the desired effect was decidedly not effected. As euphoric as it was to be lying next to the chap, I bally well needed room! Not to mention that lower Wooster was waking up faster than I was, heavy and hot and aching a bit. I rubbed it against the back of Jeeves’s legs, then gave Jeeves another push, and he rolled over to face me.

Crushed though I had been, being faced with a smiling Jeeves with dark brown hair badly mussed caused any feeling of irritation to vanish like a thief in the morning. I should have said night, because as far as I’m concerned 5 a.m is still night, Bertram does not care how vociferously anyone claims to the contrary.

He looked at me with one eyebrow at a licentious tilt. Wordlessly, we shifted together, our stiff standers happily wishing each other a _very_ good morning. As had been happening often of late, my body was more intelligent than my brain. Before this, my corpus and my todger had been on a level playing field. However, my todger had gone over to Team Jeeves and I had to accept it. Which I had no difficulty doing. Jeeves’s stiff stander was also waking up at speed. I gave my bedmate a soft kiss on the cheek. He put his nose in my ear. That sounds a great deal stranger than it was at the time, actually. It caused a most welcome small shock to the Wooster nerve system. We gazed at each other like two love struck alpacas.

Jeeves lifted the bedclothes and looked down between us, at our cheery you-know-whos, then took both of them in one large skillful hand. I hissed and put my head in the crook of his thick neck, surrounding myself with his spiffing aroma. My prick pulsed in time with my heartbeat. Jeeves proceeded to slowly stroke both of us. I twitched and throbbed and held on to the man for dear life. The only sound was our uneven breathing. His breath brushed down the side of my neck. We both trembled, our naked bodies sleepily moving together. I stretched one leg, flexing my foot, and let it brush over his before moving it back. A topping way to start the day, what?

He moved his hand faster, squeezing hard, then faster still. It was rather topping, having waves of ecstasy rolling over sleepy Bertram. My tiny demise hit first, my head snapping backwards, my body jolting, and then he stiffened and tiny demised, silently, moving his lower body against me. He let go of our stiff-standers, but we continued rubbing our bodies together, soft breaths and gentle gasps wafting into the air. Eventually we lay still, holding each other in delectable lethargy.

“Good morning, sir,” Jeeves breathed, his dark eyes half-lidded. “Did you sleep well?”

I yawned. “Yes, but what on earth are we doing awake at this hour?”

“This is when I customarily rise, sir.”

“That’s positively bestial, Jeeves! If t’were I, I would demand of that clock, what ho, what right have you to slice through my dreamless like a knife through pork chop?”

The right side of his mouth turned down slightly in disapproval.

“I’m sorry, Jeeves, that was coarse, unworthy of a Wooster whose ancestors broke bread with King Henry the VI. Come to think of it, maybe not, they ate with their hands, didn’t they?”

He skimmed the side of my face with his fingertips. “I have been in service my entire life, sir. My family has always been in service. Servants rise early so that we might attend to the households’ needs before our masters and mistresses are awake. It is my job to anticipate and see to your every need and comfort.”

I turned my head to his hand and kissed the wide palm. “And so you do, but why you can’t do it at 10 escapes me. I say, stay here and let’s catch up some more, what?” I stretched again, rolling the length of my body against his, peppering his jaw with little kisses. Strenuously masculine little kisses. As I said, the rich smell of  him was ambrosial, more so because he was warm and the bed was warm and the room was warm and everything was simply...warm.

“ _If ever any beauty I did see, which I desired, and got, ’twas but a dream of thee_ _,_ ” Jeeves rumbled softly.

“Quite agree, Jeeves.”

We cuddled, and I nestled into his massive chest, feeling like the luckiest Wooster that ever lived. Now, this might sound like I must have been smoking opium, but at that moment I wished I could crawl into his body and curl around his heart, safe and sound.  “Let’s catch a few more winks, Jeeves.”

“Very good, sir.” I wrapped my arms around his big body and dozed off. I’ll wager that I was the happiest Wooster since Agincourt.

 

 

I was again startled awake. Not by the alarm this time, but by the covers being whipped off me and then a crash. My baby blues popped open to an empty bed.  Before I could say anything, Jeeves sat up. For some reason he was sitting on the floor. Starkers. With the bedclothes next to him.

“Jeeves, you’re sitting on the floor. Starkers.”

“You pushed me out of the bed, sir,” he said, with a hint of reproach in his voice.

I grinned. Intentional or not, revenge was sweet.

 

 

Fearing further injury, Jeeves agreed to relocating to my bed. However, he insisted on tidying the room. While he did so, he drew me a hot bath. I encouraged him to join me, but the man insisted on reinstating order to the bedchamber. An absolute mania for cleanliness, Jeeves has. I washed myself with a fair amount of pique and complained to Ducky, who was most sympathetic. Good old Ducky.

Being Jeeves, he was finished making the bedroom up to scratch in a shockingly short amount of time, but any time that I wasn’t touching him made me want to bite my nails.  He had insisted upon donning an apron over his state of undress, which, as you already know, I find quite piquant.

When he returned to the bathroom to give me a towel, I threw the arms around his corking corpus, kissing him rather ferociously and getting his apron wet. I toweled myself dry and refused the offered dressing gown. I saw no point in putting anything on when Jeeves could be expected to pull it off again within minutes. He had availed himself of a quick shower, which saddened me, because I had intended to sniff him all over with the greatest of care.

Once the cove was satisfied that the room met the required standard, I grabbed him and pulled him to the bed. We lay against the pillows, kissing, stroking and petting each other, murmuring words that Wooster, B. will never quote no matter how much money he is offered. A chap has his reputation; one can only imagine what hilarity members of the Drones would find in the soppy mush I was dishing out.

I settled onto what was now my favorite location, Jeeves’s barrel chest.  “Mmmm, yes,” he rumbled. I took the opportunity to run my hand along his side, causing more rumbles, until I came to his waist.  I rubbed his paunch, feeling the uncharacteristic softness of the flesh there. He pulled his stomach in.

“Problem, Jeeves?”

“I beg your pardon—when I was a young man my stomach was flat. I am self-conscious.”

“Tommyrot, Jeeves, your stomach is delightful. It befits a man of your age—what is your age, Jeeves?”

His mouth tightened. “I am forty-four.” It was evident that it caused the fellow no little discomfort to admit it.

“Tosh. Cease to be embarrassed at once, Jeeves! If you were younger you would not have the knowledge and _gravitas_ I so admire. Besides, I like a wee bit of pudge.” I squeezed his stomach again, but he could not help pulling it in.

“I am a good deal older than you are, sir.”

“Tosh and tosh again. I shall be thirty soon. Fourteen years isn’t unheard of, Jeeves. Look at Oscar Wilde and Lord Alfred Douglas—no, _don’t_ look at them.”

“Yes, sir.”

"Let us not speak of them again."

"Yes, sir."

“Dismiss them from your mind.”

“With pleasure, sir.”

“Let us bring the conversation back to your delicious tum.” I squeezed the small cushion of fat above his hip. “Scrumptious. Anatole couldn’t hope to whip up anything as tasty as this. You do know that you’re perfect, don’t you? Magnificent brain, magnificent body. Magnificent stiff-stander.”

“Thank you.” He reddened a touch. I was making him blush. Ha! Bertram Wooster, making Jeeves blush! _I say!_ Rather!

“Were you an athlete, Jeeves? You don’t get a physique like yours hauling shrimp nets for two weeks a year. And I’m not forgetting your destruction of that chair leg. A thing like that stays with a fellow. What sort of manly sports did you practice? Discus throwing? Rugby? Juggling?”

“I boxed, sir. When I was a boy some of the other boys below stairs made fun of me for my efforts to educate myself, for ‘getting above my station’. Part of my education of necessity became learning how to fight. As an adult I took part in a number of bouts, arranged between employees of different country estates.” He smiled. “I only lost one match.”

“This Wooster counts himself lucky that you forsook the boxing ring.” I kissed across his chest, giving each cherrilet a lick. He gave a gratifying shiver each time. Inspired, I fastened onto the left one and jolly well suckled. A low drawn-out moan was my reward. I stayed there for a bit and then my lips strolled over to the matching nub and did the same. Bertram was quite proud of how he was making the largest intellect in all 48 counties in England vellicate, if vellicate is the word I want, and utter strangled sounds. Fascinated, I watched his prick thicken and bob upwards without being touched.

“Jeeves, old thing, sit on the edge of the bed, won’t you?”

I got up off the bed and waited for him to sit up. I dropped to my knees (which, I confess, hurt a bit when said knees hit the Aubusson), moved between Jeeves’s thighs and was then face to face with Jeeves’s extremely intimidating prick. Good lord, it was—it was—what’s the word I want?— _sizeable_. One would think one had gotten used to that by now, but one wouldn’t be about to put one’s mouth around it and hope not to get choked to death.

Dash it, the last of the Woosters was up the challenge, enormity of said prick or not!

Resting my forearm on his thigh, I used my other hand to guide his todger to my mouth. I licked the reddened tip. A drop of fluid emerged, which I licked up. Jeeves moaned, his hips moving, his todger stiffening and twitching. I closed my lips around the head of it, careful to keep my lips over my teeth, and moved my mouth gently. I was rewarded with a loud cry and large hands in my hair. Continuing to gently caress the tip with lips and tongue, I continued to draw more moans and movement. It bucked me up not a little, reducing this man to a gasping, helpless shadow of his former self.  To quote the Song of Sullivan, _he was as overwhelming as a thingummy with banners.  His corpus was as an orchard of pomegranates with choice...choice...choice..._ something edible, I forget what, but he was so edible I could have eaten him with a spoon.

Slowly, I took more of him into my mouth, until I started to gag. That still left a fair amount of stiff stander, which by now was as stiff as I’d ever seen it. Fortunately, young Wooster was an old hand at this wheeze even if I hadn’t ever had a todger this big in my mouth. Continuing on the subject of hands, I wrapped my right hand around the part my mouth couldn’t manage. Moving my head and my hand simultaneously took a few minutes to get in stride. Jeeves thrashed so that I kept my other forearm on his upper thigh and his hip to keep him from pushing too far into my mouth. His hands pulled my hair but not so that it hurt. I glanced up to see him looking down at me with pure lust in his dark eyes. This brought a smile to the young master’s face, although smiling meant that a large slosh of saliva dripped out of my mouth. It didn’t take long before Jeeves’s prick swelled as his hands clenched in my hair and he yelled out _“Deus Hoc Vult!”_ or words to that effect.

A gush of fluid poured into my mouth, which I gulped down. The whole wheeze was unbearably stimulating, and rutting against the edge of the mattress was not accomplishing all that I desired by any means. I continued to suck his todger as it softened and returned to somewhat human dimensions. It slid out of my mouth wetly. Panting, Jeeves released my hair and flopped on his back.  “Oh, sir,” he managed.

I sat back and used my now free hand to pull myself off. Almost instantly I screamed something I will paraphrase to “It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done! It is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known!” That does more or less sum up how I felt.

 

 

Once we were again curled up together and nesting under the bedclothes, I decided this was as good a time as any to find out more of Jeeves’s past. As I have said before, not knowing the identity of the man who broke his heart had continued to gnaw at me like termites confronted with a tasty bit of elm.

“Jeeves, my love, now that we are more than master and man, I need to know: who was the godly figure who broke your heart? If I’m going to be compared to someone, I should like to know who it is.”

He drew in a surprised breath. “There is no comparison between the two of you. I love you. I was infatuated with him.”

“Infatuated enough to become celibate. Out with it, my good fellow!”

“Oh, sir.” He shifted onto his back and stared at the ceiling. After a minute, he sighed. “It is not easy for me to talk about. I have rarely spoken about it to anyone.”

“Your secret is safe with me, old thing.”

“When I was thirty, I fell passionately in love. It was like a hallucination, the kind of love that tears your world apart.”

“Oh, my.” Hallucination? Torn apart? What was I, egg salad?

There was profound sadness in his dark eyes. “It was an illusion, sir. I never revealed myself to him. He was the best friend of my employer. He was contentedly married, with two sons. He was only interested in women.” Jeeves drew in a long breath. “That he was unattainable fueled my fantasies. I dreamed of his abandoning his wife and children, fleeing with me to Paris, to Argentina, anywhere but England. I imagined grand passion in the finest suites in the finest international hotels. But when he looked at me, all he saw was my employer’s faithful valet. When he looked at me. Which was rarely.”

“My dear man,” I said sympathetically, but inwardly I was relieved. What a beast, to not appreciate Jeeves!

“This man frequented my employer’s London home and country estate. There were times his sons were entrusted to me. I hated them. They looked like his wife. I had gone through my life without falling in love. Now that it was upon me, it would not let me alone. Serving at table when he was there—I am ashamed to tell you this.”

“Why?” I tentatively stroked his hair. Jeeves returned his gaze to the ceiling.

“I pride myself on my control of my emotions. To have—this—happen to me—I felt not myself. At thirty years old, I was a moonstruck schoolboy. ‘ _But of all pains, the greatest pain, It is to love, but love in vain_.’”

“Is that Shakespeare?”

“Abraham Cowley, a 17th century poet. It is from _Davidus, A Sacred Poem of The Troubles of David._ It tells the Biblical—“

“Jeeves, dispense with the troubles with David.”

“Yes, sir.”

“David can go have his troubles elsewhere.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Continue with your tale, Jeeves. Did this heavenly creature ever return your affections?”

The man ignored my sarcasm. “No. He adored his wife.  But it only made my passion more unreasonable. I left my employer so that I would no longer have to see this man. Love, passion, brought me only pain. So I made the decision to become celibate. The passions and heartaches of desire were simply not worth it. With time, I schooled my desires and my emotions so that I no longer felt the need for carnal release.”

“Gosh,” I gulped.

“Until I danced with you.” He smiled, and Bertran's heart melted into a puddle of goo.

“There’s one thing I can offer you that you always wanted. Grand passion in the finest suites in the finest international hotels.”

Jeeves nosed around in my hair. “It is not necessary, sir. I am with you, that is all that matters.”

I felt suddenly moved to tears. “My dearest Jeeves,” I said, “will you marry me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Deus voc hult" - God Wills It. The rallying cry of the Prince's Crusade, 1096-1099.
> 
> "It is a far, far better thing" - Sydney Carton, _A Tale of Two Cities_ , Charles Dickens, 1859
> 
> "If ever any beauty I did see, which I desired, and got, ’twas but a dream of thee" - John Donne, _The Good Morrow_. The poet is saying that any loves he had before were merely a dream of his current love.
> 
> The age difference between Oscar Wilde and his lover Lord Alfred Douglas was roughly sixteen years.


	35. In The Name Of Marlene Dietrich

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bertie and Jeeves celebrate their nuptials, and some of the guests have a surprise.
> 
> Please comment!

In the ordinary course of human events, weddings are held in churches and chapels. In the extraordinary course of human events, weddings are held in the damp subbasement of the Ripe Cherry. On this blessed day the various stored crates and trunks had been cleared away and a small lectern with a red satin cloth with the letters RC embroidered in gold was on the far side of the room. After some discussion it had been decided that this was the safest place to hold our ceremony.

Naturally when she heard about it, Flame decreed she be the officiant. If you have never been faced with a determined Miss Flambé you will simply have to take my word for it that agreeing was the wisest course.

The day of, we carried our morning suits in valises and left the flat separately. We had agreed to change in different dressing rooms at the Ripe Cherry so that we wouldn’t see each other before the ceremony.

It was what the society pages like to call “an intimate wedding”. To my regret, my friends and family could not be told. However, Jeeves’s sister Daisy, her husband Percy, their daughter Mabel, and Gerald Espenson were in attendance. Biffy was not there and Mabel was sworn to secrecy. Even if she did let the cat out of the bag, Biffy would never remember it.

Our bridal party awaited us by the lectern. Beryl Dixon was maid of honor. Four of the Ripe Cherry “girls” were bridesmaids.  They were there more from a desire to wear pink than to bless our union. Beryl was in a sweet little pink chiffon dress that showed her bally marvelous legs, and a matching hat, whipped up by the Ripe Cherry seamstress. The “bridesmaids” were similarly tricked out.

Miss Flambé dressed for the occasion in a black nun’s habit. The false bosoms she wore under her habit were much larger than usual; my guess was that her ordinary bosoms would be lost amongst all of that fabric.  A traditional church might not approve of the high slits on either side of the skirt, or the red hair showing under the coif, nor the coif and wimple being made of white satin. But Flame was perfect for the Wooster/Jeeves nuptials.

The trumpeter from the Ripe Cherry played Wagner’s ‘Bridal March’ as we walked down on either side of the guests.

When I caught sight of Jeeves, I felt as weepy as a housewife at a Garbo picture. There was never a finer looking bridegroom, in Oxford gray cutaway, white waistcoat, high wing collar and subtle blue tie. Jeeves had insisted on picking out the ties after I suggested a spiffy number in pink with silver hearts on it. There was only a suggestion of brilliantine in the man’s hair, holding it in place without interfering with the thick waves. I didn’t look too shabby myself, the willowy form also encased in Oxford gray and subtle blue tie We wore gardenias in our buttonholes. Jeeves had located them at great expense, saying they meant “secret love” and that roses were hum-drum. He didn’t use that word, of course, Jeeves never uses hum-drum words like hum-drum because they are too hum-drum. Since he put a rose in my buttonhole most days, I had to agree with the chap, although it had long been a secret dream of mine to walk down the aisle carrying a bouquet of red roses. But that was also when my other secret dream was getting married to Arthur Askey.

Jeeves and I faced each other. Yours truly is a tad embarrassed to admit that he felt quite giddy and wouldn’t have been surprised if white doves had flung themselves out of the trunks surrounding us. Jeeves seemed to be trying to control his expression, but his mouth twitched and he was moist around the peepers.

One bridesmaid, as tall as Jeeves, bawled through the whole ceremony so loudly that another bridesmaid snapped, “shut up, you cow!” loudly in the middle of Miss Flambé’s invocation. Her version of same was a long, complicated and filthy joke involving Russian waiters, sozzled stenographers and a wildebeest. It got a hearty laugh from the assembled. We joined hands.

“Do you, Reginald Thomas Jeeves,” intoned Miss Flambé, “take this man to be your husband, for better or worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, as long as you both shall live?”

Jeeves’s dark eyes looked into mine. There was an ocean of love in them. “I do.”

“And do you, Bertram Wilberforce Wooster, take this man to be your husband, for better or worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, as long as you both shall live?”

“I say, rather! Til death do us part, don’t you know, absolutely, _quite_!”

Miss Flambé gave Jeeves a pitying look.

“By the authority vested in me by Miss Marlene Dietrich, I now pronounce you man and man. You may kiss the bride—no,  you may kiss the groom—you may kiss the man—oh, hell, boys, kiss.”

We kissed. It was on the chaste side but heartfelt. I gloried in showing our love to the rest of the world. If you consider a small group in the subbasement the rest of the world, that is. But what caredeth Bertram? He caredethed not! We were there to plight our trough, at least in the eyes of Miss Flambé and Marlene Dietrich.

The Ripe Cherry trumpeter played Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March” as we turned and walked up the right-hand “aisle”. I held Jeeves’s hand, grinning like billy-o. He was also grinning, can you credit it? I could count on the digits of one paw how many times I had seen my bridegroom _grin!_ He leaned into my ear and whispered words of love which I shall not paraphrase. Suffice to say they were just what Bertram wanted to hear. I whispered back, less poetically but equally ticker-felt.

When it was all over, our guests congratulated us, shaking hands and what-not.

“This is my sister, Daisy Eldridge, and her husband, Percy,” said Jeeves, who had resumed his servant posture, standing with hands at his sides. Daisy did indeed look like quite a bit like her brother. Quite tall, noble features, dark brown hair in a sensible bob, violet dress cut in simple lines. Good-looking, if a trifle imposing. Again, quite a bit like her brother.

“Congratulations, Mr. Wooster,” Daisy said, shaking my hand with a firm grip.

“What-ho!”

“We’ve heard so much about you from Reginald.”

“Good things, I hope! Do call me Bertram, we’re old pals now!”

She regarded me fondly, as if I were a duckling with a limp. “Yes, sir. Welcome to our family.” So the dashed inability to use my first name ran in the family.

“Congratulations!” said Percy, shaking Jeeves’s hand. “I hope you make Mr. Wooster as happy as Daisy has made me.” He was also tall, although not as tall as Jeeves—who is? With soft salt and pepper hair and a dashing profile, it was easy to see where Mabel had gotten her looks. Mabel watched, hands clasped under her chin.

“Oh, Bertie, that was beautiful! I’m so sorry your family couldn’t be invited.”

“Don’t give it another thought, young Mabel. Aunt Dahlia would have wailed and gnashed her teeth, Aunt Agatha would have tried to stop the wedding by throwing thunderbolts, and God only knows what would have happened if Claude and Eustace were here.”

“True, that,” she agreed.

The bridesmaids all insisted on kissing Jeeves, because that was what anyone who was sensible would want to do. The man had sex appeal. He was left with his cheeks covered in bright red lip rouge. He would have to use a pumice stone to clean his dial. Beryl and Gerald approached and were introduced to all and sundry.

“Bertie, I’m so happy,” Beryl said, taking both of my hands in hers. “You were meant for each other. You have to promise to walk the straight and narrow from now on, do you understand me?”

“I promise, darling heart. This Wooster is finished roaming. He has come home at last.” I kissed her on the cheek. “On to the Pink Slipper for the reception, eh?”

She gave my hands a hard squeeze.

Gerald said, “You’re not having the reception at the Pink Slipper!”

I looked down at the cove. “Of course it is, Jeeves arranged it.”

“My wedding present to you both is the reception,” said Beryl, “And Jeeves can suck it up and enjoy it. I’m not telling you the location. We’ll catch a cab and you’re to follow us.”

I say, this was an interesting turn of events. When I relayed the news to my bridegroom, his right eyebrow raised a full inch. “A surprise reception, sir?” he said, his voice dripping with so much opprobrium it could have made a pool around his feet.

I slipped my arm in his. “I know that you planned the reception yourself, Jeeves, but I’m all for a little spontaneity, aren’t you?”

“If I must, sir,” he said doubtfully.

“ _Bertram!_ We’re hitched now, for God’s sake!”

“Bertram.” He seemed to roll the name around his mouth. “ _Bertram_.” He shook his head. “No, sir. I love you, but not enough to call you Bertram.”

“You’re a strange bird, do you know that, Jeeves?”

“You would prefer me ordinary, sir?” Jeeves smiled indulgently.

“Bite your tongue, man! Come, let us join the caravan.” I twined my fingers with his and we headed for the stairs.

 

 

It seemed to me that Beryl and Gerald’s cab took its bloody sweet time wending its way around the wintry London streets. Where in God’s name were we going? Take it from Wooster, B., there is nothing more damned frustrating than to have to sit on either side of a cab’s back seat, not touching, when all one wants to do with his beloved is snog like a returning sailor who hasn’t seen his sweet patootie since he left on that expedition to Antarctica. Jeeves sat stiffly, clearly displeased that the plans had been taken out of his kid-gloved hands.

“I’m grateful to Beryl, but really, I would much rather return to the flat and be alone with you and do all sorts of _après_ wedding things,” I said softly, so that the driver could not hear us.

“Indeed, sir,” he murmured. “Although, as the saying goes, Miss Beryl’s heart is in the right place, one doubts the reception will meet the required standard,” he muttered as if we were going to a dinner party hosted by circus clowns. Doubtless he expected trained parakeets and waiters in funny paper hats.

“Even if it doesn’t, Jeeves, it’s jolly nice of her. I say, this all looks familiar.” I gazed out of the cab window. “Are we in the West End again?”

“Indeed we are, sir.”

Beryl’s cab pulled up at the stage entrance of the Princess Theater. Our cabs halted behind it.

“Come on, boys!” she called as she and Gerald hustled up the alley. Jeeves and I followed, with the rest of the bridal party in pursuit in two more cabs. Miss Flambé had tossed a black cape over her nun costume. The bridesmaids complained about the cold. “This is no weather to wear chiffon in!” the sobbing bridesmaid snapped.

Cheers roared out as we came through the stage door.

I staggered, seizing my bridegroom’s arm. “Jeeves!” I gasped.

“Sir!” he gasped back.

Almost the entire company of “Node's Jollities of 1934” was there!  My top hat was knocked off and Jeeves ducked as we were pelted with rice. I yelled in delighted surprise. The slight widening of his eyes showed his shock, but Jeeves kept hold of my hand on his arm.

Long tables had been set along the stage, decorated with white tablecloths, pink flowers in bud vases down the centers of each table.  A large banner hung above, CONGRATULATIONS spelled out in gold letters. Doubtless it had been made for the opening, but what did that matter? The old eyes moistened. I hadn’t realized how many of the company I had come to know through hanging about backstage and the show at the Pink Slipper. Even the stage doorman, whose name I had never learned (it is in the grand tradition of the theater to address the stage doorman as “Pops”).

“Surprise, Bertie!” Beryl cried, throwing rice directly into my face.

“Phhhrrt!” was my response, my mouth and nose being full of rice.

“Surprise!” Gerald cried. I flung myself away, expecting more rice, and bumped backwards into Oofy Prosser.

“Congratulations!” he exclaimed as a waiter brought us champagne on a tray. Knowing Oofy, it was probably on the cheap side. Knowing Oofy, it was. But again, what did that matter? I had plotted my troche! Jeeves was my husband in the eyes of Miss Marlene Dietrich and the world!

“Congratulations, old man,” said Eric Stanton, shaking Jeeves’s hand. “No hard feelings, eh?”

“None at all,” replied Jeeves graciously. Oofy gave Jeeves a ‘hands off, buddy!’ look, grabbed Eric’s hand and carried him off. The chap wasn’t taking any chances, that’s for sure. And glad I was of it.

Jeeves and I made the rounds of the crowd, shaking hands, being kissed and hugged (to his chagrin, Jeeves could not prevent people from hugging him). As Beryl had said, Jeeves was legendary after our _contretemps_ viz. the blot Simpson. Show people were egging him on to tell the story. He would shake his head politely and move on the next clump of worshipers.

Jennifer Jakes, late of Jakes and Simpson, threw her arms around me, thanking me for arranging that she dance with Eric. The papers had duly taken notice and she had signed a new contract with loads more dosh. When I told Jennifer that it had been Jeeves’s doing, she repeated the arm throwing wheeze, which clearly did not sit well with the man. I managed to get next to him. “Get used to being adored, old thing,” I said quietly.

“The only person I want to be adored by is you.”

“Tough luck, lover of mine. Here comes another one, and this one looks ready to kiss as well.”

Jeeves blanched, but carried on as his acolytes swarmed around him, and he was soon lost to view.

Daisy and Percy stood to one side as Mabel came up to us. “There’s more to the surprise, chaps!” she exclaimed. She turned and pointed to the table. In the middle was a bally spectacular wedding cake, six tiers festooned with sugar flowers and a green wreath.

“That’s bloody marvelous!” I exclaimed. “Where did you get it?”

“Mum and Dad made it!”

“Gosh! How can I thank you?”

Daisy smiled warmly, in a reserved but more relaxed fashion than her brother. “By making my brother happy. Seeing him so joyful after so long, I am eternally grateful to you, Mr. Wooster.” Her definition of ‘joyful’ was different than mine, mine being leaping about and yodeling, and Jeeves’s being a small smile. Fortunately, I speak Jeeves. I knew he was joyful, even if so many people insisted on embracing him.

“Mum made all of the baked goods for today,” Mabel went on. “The rolls, pastries, bread, you name it. Dad made the soup for the first course.   _Consomme a la Brunoise_.”

“Mabel, dear—“ Daisy started to say.

“Mum, you never take credit for things,” her daughter said with exasperation. “She’s been baking for days!”

“Your father has also been baking.”

“That I have!” exclaimed Percy.

“Thank you,” I said. Jeeves materialized at my side. “Jeeves, did you know your sister and brother-in-law made that bally spectacular wedding cake?”

This was one for the history books: Jeeves _stared_! The eyebrows went farther upward than I had ever witnessed, the mouth opened. He turned to his sister, and to my astonishment, I swear on a stack of King James Bibles, he _hugged_ the woman! Hugged, I say! If I hadn’t been sober I would have sworn it was a drunken halluci-majig!

“Daisy, I cannot thank you enough.” And then he kissed her! On the cheek! Again, slide that stack of Bibles under this Wooster’s hand and he will swear again!

This was certainly a day for miracles!

 

Marlene Dietrich in "Morocco", 1930

This was the cake I had in mind:

 

Wagner's Wedding March played on the trumpet and organ (I couldn't find one with only trumpet)

 

 Mendelssohn's Wedding March played on the trumpet

 

For your viewing pleasure, Arthur Askey telling a few jokes and signing his signature "Bee Song". He would definitely be a hit at the Drones...perhaps even the Ripe Cherry. The song is 1:43 in.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> German actress Marlene Dietrich made an iconic entrance in "Morocco" (1930) as a saloon singer wearing a man's tuxedo. She took a flower from a maiden, then kissed her on the mouth. Then she sang to Gary Cooper and stuck the flower behind his ear. She was an erotic symbol to both men and women, and remained a major star until at age 78 she became a recluse and took to her bed until her death in 1992 at the age of 90.


	36. Do I Hear A Waltz?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the wedding reception includes dancing, singing and eating cake amidst drunken bridesmaids and others.

While I picked the shattered remains off the floor, Jeeves had regained his poise and moved with his sister and brother-in-law back into the huddled masses, although it was evident that Jeeves was the one yearning to breathe free.

His sister was also a model of decorum, although poor Percy looked slightly taken aback by it all. One assumes they were used to weddings held in quaint country chapels and receptions held in the parish hall, serving fruit punch. Not in subbasements with a female impersonator officiating. And a reception backstage at a West End theater.

  The dance orchestra from the Pink Slipper was there, busting out a stream of romantic ballads that kept the proceedings from getting out of hand. I admit, I don’t know what in blazes a “deep purple dream” is, however, “I Wish I Were Twins” and “Looking On The Bright Side” were catchy little ditties.

Beryl assumed the role of hostess and guest wrangler, and eventually got the assembled company to sit down and ingurgitate what was a truly abundant feast. It could have been served in the first class dining room of the Queen Mary...not the actual dining room of Queen Mary, her Royal Highness might have been somewhat disconcerted to find a group of hooting, drunken dancers, singers and actors ringing the royal table. The dining room of the good ship Queen Mary, I mean. Not only were the Eldridge breadstuffs the real tabasco, the _consommé a la Brunoise_ was the stuff to give the troops. Said troops ate as if a horde of pirates were about to sweep in and lay waste to the theater before the _mouton aux champignons_ was served. Jeeves and I sat next to each other. Jeeves has exquisite table manners, able to carry on nibbling _épinards à la crème_ when hit on the side of the head with rice, tossed by an extremely ossified bridesmaid who nonetheless had remarkable aim.

“Who made the dinner?” I asked Beryl, who was leaning over us to pour champagne into our glasses. “These _pommes de terre bouillies_ and I have met before.”

“The chef of a terribly posh restaurant, Le Perroquet Dansant, offered to cater the meal.”

I dropped my forkful of _mouton._ The fork hit the plate with a clatter as _au jus_ splashed on my tie, causing Jeeves to make a anguished noise. “Jean Luc?” I stared at the girl. “Chef Jean Luc? Thick soup strainer mustache, a wee bit on the portly side?”

“That’s him.”

“Chef Jean Luc...this has the unmistakable hand of  Jeeves.” I looked at the man.

He inclined the head. “Mr. Fallon had apprised me of his arrangement with Chef Jean Luc. The good chef was most appreciative of your high opinion of his cooking, and offered to cater the reception.”

 “Jeeves,” I said, awed. “You stand alone. Hang on—am I paying for this?”

“No, sir. Jean Luc insisted on providing the meal _gratis_. In exchange for your endorsement of Le Perroquet Dansant in the next ‘Rapacious Gourmet’ column in the _Times._ ”

“The chef and some of his waiters were going to deliver the food to the Pink Slipper,” said Beryl, “but Gerald found out and diverted him here. He had to quadruple the order first.”

 “Words fail me.” I grabbed her hand. “Beryl, thank Gerald for me. I shall dance at your wedding.”

“Both of you will dance at my wedding,” Beryl retorted, giving Jeeves a wink.

Flame held court at another long table, flirting more than any respectable nun would consider proper. That is if nuns flirted. Perhaps they did, when the Monsignor came around. Flame’s tablemates were hanging on her every word. I couldn’t hear her, but it was safe to assume the language would shock my previous fiancées. Her tablemates included Oofy and Eric. The unfortunate effect of my having seen Oofy as nature made him was that a shudder rippled the corpus whenever my eyes had the bad luck of falling on him.

“Jeeves,” I said _sotto voce_ , leaning toward my beloved, “I have seen Oofy without his clothes on. And survived, but barely.”

“Oh, sir!” Jeeves gasped, putting his hand over mine. “I am deeply sorry you had to suffer that way.”

At another table, the bridesmaids had met compatible gentleman among the Lavender Lads and were well on their way to getting nicely sozzled. Jeeves and self enjoyed lashings of champagne. It might have been on the bargain side of the sales table but someone else was paying for it for a change. That was good enough for Wooster, B.

As the dinner was cleared away, Beryl stood and tapped her fork against her champagne glass.  The assembled fell into a sort-of-silence, punctuated with giggles, hiccups and one or two soft snores.

“Boys and girls, ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for the cutting of the cake!” she cried.

I gave Jeeves a panicked look. “You’re slicing the thing,” I muttered, visions of the giant cake crashing onto me if I took a knife.

He smiled. “Very good, my own.” We rose, and I took Jeeves’s hand. If it was only today, in this congenial crowd, that I could take my lover’s hand, that might be enough, I thought.

Daisy hovered protectively by the cake. It was clear she also was concerned about the dire consequences should young Wooster cut into the gateau. Jeeves smoothly sliced a small piece from the second tier, placed it on a plate and handed it to me, then repeated his action and took a plate for himself.  As he picked up a fork, Flame called out:

“Feed each other the cake!”

Jeeves stared at her, eyes widening. The crowd took up the chant.

“Feed the cake! Feed the cake! Feed the cake!”

“Sir.” It was clear he had no intention of doing so.

“Come on, Jeeves, it’s our wedding day.” His mouth opened to protest, and I deftly slid in a forkful of cake. The crowd cheered. Jeeves chewed, directing a tiny, embarrassed smile toward his beaming sister. I opened my mouth wide, like a child saying “aaaaah” and he fed me a bit of cake. There was another cheer.  I wanted to kiss him, but that was right out.

Led by Beryl, the crowd burst into another chant:

“First dance! First dance! First dance!”

“These theater people are most forward,” Jeeves said. “We should return to our seats.”

“Oh come now, Jeeves. This might be the only time I can dance with you without wearing a dress!”

“We’ve prepared a special song for you,” she said, stepping in front of the orchestra. “It’s called ‘Lover’ by Rodgers and Hart. The first dance should always be a waltz. Are you ready, boys?”

The bandleader nodded.  Jeeves bowed to the inevitable and took me in his arms.

“ _I’m_ leading this time,” I said. 

The orchestra struck up the tune and Beryl sang. She had a bright voice, high and sweet. We swung into the waltz, the tails of our morning coats flying.

 _Lover, when I'm near you_  
_And I hear you speak my name_  
_Softly in my ear_  
_You breathe a flame_  


 “You’re leading, Jeeves,” I whispered.

“My apologies,” he whispered back, and let me take the reins again.

  _Lover, when we're dancing_  
_Keep on glancing in my eyes_  
_Till love's own entrancing music dies_

 Along with her bally marvelous everything else, Beryl had a bally marvelous voice. She sang the bridge.

  _All of my future is in you_  
_Your every plan I design_  
_Promise you'll always continue_  
_To be mine_  
 

This Wooster is not ashamed to admit a bit of moisture filled the eyes as he gazed into the dark eyes of the man he had pledged his heart to. Jeeves fairly glowed, a small happy smile on his map that touched me more than a grin could have.

 _Lover, please be tender_  
_When your tender fears depart_  
_Lover, I surrender to my heart_

Beryl bowed to enthusiastic applause. The orchestra started up another waltz, “A Kiss To Remember” and other couples took to the stage, er, floor.  Daisy had continued to carve the gateau, and Percy handed out plates to the company. The sobbing bridesmaid, far from sobbing and tight as an owl, bashed her slice into the face of the Lavender Lad dancing attendance on her. We took that as a signal to vamoose.

 

 

Even after changing into my tweed suit, I still felt that there was rice in my drawers. Jeeves was likewise in his uniform. We tipped our hats to Jarvis and went up the stairs.

When we reached the flat, Jeeves unlocked the front door. Then he looked up and down the corridor to make certain there was no one there. He swept me up in his arms and carried me into the flat!

After he pushed the door shut with his foot, I stared at my bridegroom _nee_ valet. “I say, Jeeves, did you—did you just carry me over the threshold?”

“It seemed the right thing to do, sir.”  He kissed me, a lovely long kiss which quickly moved from British to French. However, I couldn’t help a cavernous yawn.

“Jeeves,” I said, laying the head on his shoulder. “I’m done in. The continuance of our wedding celebration will have to resume in the morning.”

“You might feel differently, my own.” From the way he was looking at me, I had a suspicion that I would have a second wind.

 

 

 

This is Elmer Feldkamp and his Orchestra, playing "Lover" , with Feldkamp on vocals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Lover" is from the 1932 movie "Love Me Tonight", starring Jeanette MacDonald and Maurice Chevalier. The score is by Richard Rogers and Lorenz Hart. It is sung by Jeanette, but despite my best efforts, I couldn't find a clip.


	37. The Honeymoon Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the teal dressing gown meets blue satin. Naughtiness ensues.
> 
> NC-17
> 
> My goodness, here we are, almost at the end! Comments are welcomed with open arms!

Jeeves carried me into the bedroom. “I believe, sir, that we may begin our honeymoon now.”

“But the boat to France doesn’t leave until Tuesday— _oh_!” I slid down his body to the floor. On the way, I brushed by lower Jeeves, which was making its presence known in his trousers in no uncertain terms. “You’re darn tooting! Love of my life, fire of my loins, you don’t mind if I put the old arms around you? Your trunk might be damaged from all of that hugging.” He answered my question by putting his arms around me first, gently, laying off his tendency to crush my ribs.

“I shall return in a moment, sir. Please do not open any of the packages.”

I followed his gaze to the bed, where there were several large packages, all gaily wrapped in bright red. “Those? What are they?”

“Your wedding presents, sir.”

“Wedding presents? From who?”

“Me, sir.”

I looked at him. “The happy couple don’t give each other presents. That’s the duty of loved ones and people who intend to touch you for dosh in the foreseeable future."

“One may make an exception in this case, my own.” He trickled out. I picked up the largest package and shook it. There was no particular noise, nor were there in any of the others. I was just picking up the smallest package when before I could shake it, Jeeves trickled back in, wearing his teal dressing gown. And nothing underneath.

My little soldier was suddenly very much at attention. All day little ripples of arousal had been lapping through me. High tide rushed in, bringing with it a blood flow crashing through the area to which I allude to with only the greatest fondness. It was amazing that I didn’t lose consciousness from all of the red stuff fleeing my brain for parts south.

Jeeves was having a similar reaction; one side of his dressing gown below the waist looked like a brightly colored teal sail lashed to a thick long mast.  “Open the largest package,” he directed. It was quite thrilling to have my manservant direct the young master to do something. I ripped open the paper, causing Jeeves to wince, then let it drop to the floor. The white box was inscribed MADAME TALLULAH. It had a red ribbon around it. I undid the ribbon, opened the box, and was absolutely frozen.

“It’s a...dress?” My eyes beheld a blue satin and chiffon evening dress, the exact color of my eyes.

“Indeed, sir,” Jeeves rumbled, his voice dropping more than an octave. I defrosted in record time. “Madame Tallulah supplies the costumes to the Ripe Cherry. You’ll need a costume for your next appearance as Ginger Rogers, sir.”

“That’s not why you bought it, is it?” I asked, stroking the chiffon.

“No, sir. The smallest package, if you would be so good.”

The smallest package revealed long white kidskin evening gloves. The next one contained a blonde wig. To my surprise, the last box held a pair of low-heeled slippers that matched the dress, with jeweled clips on the toes. “Where—wherever did you get shoes in my size, Jeeves?” I gasped happily.

“Miss Flambé was kind enough to direct me to a shoemaker who specializes in specialized footwear.”

I pulled the dress out of the box. It was some pumpkins! Chiffon floaty flappy sleeves, a high jeweled neckline and gathers and things suitable for making the willowy form look less willowy and more billowy.

“I say...“  My voice died in my throat.

“Indeed, sir,” he said in that same low voice. My goodness, it was doing things to my insides! Not to mention the region slightly below!

“You want me to put these on?” I asked stupidly.

“I found myself greatly affected when you were dressed this way.”

I smiled. “Jeeves, I’ll need some help. Miss Flambé isn’t here.”

There was a flicker, and Jeeves manifested in front of me.

He removed my outer crust faster than a fox hound chasing down its prey. I mean to say, I was mesmerized. Jacket, shirt, undervest, trousers, the lot. Was it me, or did the man seem to be enjoying himself even more than was usual? The intent stare and diligent—dignified—dilated pupils would indicate it. His mouth was in a thin line.

When at last I stood unclothed before him, my soldier standing at unbearably strict attention, he said, “Shall I dress you, sir?”

“Oh, dear me, I say! Absolutely, old horse!” I reached out to open his dressing gown, but he firmly took my hands and placed them at my sides.

“No,” he said. Hmph. This directing of the young master was a tad less thrilling this go-round.

He picked up the dress, running it over his left arm and hand, palm up. His eyes closed at the feel of the blue satin. His eyes opened and he leaned forward, taking a large, startling bite of my shoulder. However, I knew I should stand perfectly still, like a dress up doll. After all, I was his dress up doll, wasn’t I? The fights over the fruitier items in my wardrobe, were they not only because of his Victorian taste in fashion, but also because Jeeves wished this Wooster to appear faultless?

Jeeves stepped behind me with the dress, holding it to one side. He gently pushed lower Jeeves against the small of my naked back and rumbled a little “mmm.”

“Raise your arms.” Obediently I raised my arms. He lightly bit my upper arm, then licked it, then blew on it. I wanted to make a crack about how depraved he was, but to be blunt I was far too aroused to do much more than wait for the next sensation.

“I am so desirous I could die from it, sir,” he whispered in my ear.

“Don’t, my good man, or you’ll miss the good part,” I whispered back.

The soft satin slipped over my upraised arms and down, an experience I hadn’t had with a garment since I was in short trousers. A man’s clothing fastens or is pulled up from the ground, you see. If it’s pulled over the head, it’s an undervest or a sweater, nothing like the feeling of this dress sliding down my arms, then down my body. “Two times two is four, three times three is six, four times four is oh golly—“ Desperately I tried not to focus on the dress, fearing I would come off right there. And there was going to be much more, if the large man breathing heavily behind me had anything to say about it. His fingers danced upwards, fastening the tiny buttons on the side. With a moan, he buried his face in my shoulder, between the neckline and just into the sleeve. My head went back and the back of it touched the top of his, making me shudder.

The front of the wonderful blue dress was tented by my stiff-stander. Bertram was grateful he didn’t leak like some other fellows, or there would have been the most unbecoming stain right from the get-go.

“You are so beautiful, sir,” he breathed into the chiffon.

“Touch me?” I whined.

“Not yet.” He slid his hand down my arm. “Such soft material. Such perfection. I brought the materials to the dressmaker. They had nothing fine enough for you. Stay still, sir.” With infinite tenderness, he kissed up my neck and again put his nose in my ear. It still took getting used to, but we had found that putting his nose in my eye was a source of unexpected, if extremely strange, bit of pleasure for me.

The wig descended on my head, settled firmly and positioned.

Jeeves crossed in front of me, frankly staring. I defy anyone, man, woman or other, not to have the old heart-strings fluttering! He handed me the gloves. As soon as I got my fingers into them, he insisted on drawing each one up my arms, kissing the insides of my elbows. “Dammit, Jeeves, let’s get this show on the bloody road!” I wanted to scream, certain I could take no more. But Bertram has enough sense to know when to keep his mouth shut, contrary to popular opinion.

“Sit upon the bed, sir.” I did as I was asked.

Jeeves picked up one blue shoe. He took my foot in the other. It was shaking—his hand, not the shoe, although if the shoe had known what was going on it would have been shaking, too. Does a shoe shake in its boots? Odd expression, that, shaking in one’s boots. What if you never wear boots? Where was I? Oh! Yes! Being shod by the world’s most incomparable gentleman’s personal gentleman, and I do mean personal, oh, yes I do. Incomparable! Posilutely the cat’s knickers!

Where was I again?

Jeeves. Shoes. Right.

The aforementioned cove kissed across the knuckles of my toes, then slipped the shoe on, and repeated the process with the other shoe.

“Stand up, please.” I obeyed with alacrity.

“Now what, Jeeves?” I asked breathlessly. “Are we going to put on a phonograph record? Take a whirl around the flat?” I lifted my hands in a dancing pose.

“No, sir,” he said, slipping one hand around the small of my back and the other behind my head. Then he simultaneously bent me over backwards while kissing me so intensely and deeply that I gasped and shivered. He lifted me back up, and I couldn’t help collapsing forward against him. The teal dressing gown hung open, exposing his magnificent body and erect todger. I could feel his heart pounding like a kettle drum. This was definitely the elephant’s eyebrows.

“You are exquisite—“ Before he could say more, I grabbed the sides of his head and kissed back, sloppily. This was no time for good manners. Still holding me, Jeeves bent slightly, positioning his regal prick under mine, and gave a long, slow stroke. We both gasped as the silk slithered between our pricks.  His large hands came up my back, sliding over the satin down to my pert behind. Jeeves was going slowly, savoring each moment. On the one hand, it was staggeringly erotic. On the other hand, my todger was yelling at me to move things along pronto! You don’t know how difficult keeping your self-control is when Jeeves is sliding his extremely large todger over yours with a blue silk evening dress between you. You’ll have to take my word for it, because this Jeeves belongs to me. You'll have to find your own.

“ _We two have paddled in the stream, from morning sun till dine; but seas between us broad have roared since days of long ago.”_ Jeeves lifted my right hand to his mouth, moving his lips across the kidskin, taking my little finger gently in his teeth. It left a small saliva stain on the leather.

“Jeeves, while I appreciate oceans roaring and all that, could you hurry things along a bit?” I gasped, my shortness of breath making it a tad difficult to get words out. To encourage him, I braced myself in the blue shoes and pushed hard against his hips.  Jeeves gave forth with a groan which nearly knocked over the furniture.

He scooped me up again and deposited me rather ungently on the bed. Then he straddled me and slipped off his dressing gown. Really, if the blighter persisted in looking so bally toothsome I was certain to come off too soon!  He got on all fours above me, hands on the mattress and knees on either side. I was ready for some good old tummy sticks, but instead Jeeves went into a backwards crouch. Then, eyes tightly shut, he _slowly_ dragged lower Jeeves along the dress, starting at my knees and ending at my sternum. He dragged backwards, then repeated the motion, pushing l. J. against my corpus. Now, this Wooster is a patient man, many will tell you, who suffers fools all too gladly and waits for pals in front of a music hall in the rain for hours. But my patience was being sorely tested, as lower Wooster was being ignored in this scenario. While the feeling of Jeeves’s enormous body sliding back and forth on my corpus was certainly not objectionable, it lacked generosity.

“Jeeves, my lovely, what you are doing is not objectionable but it lacks generosity,” I gurgled.

He paused, his massive chest hovering over me, his eyes alight with passion. At the risk of having the brute crash down onto me, I took advantage of my position to tweak one of his nut-browns. Jeeves made a little “oh!” sound. That was his cue to lean down and again kiss me into insensibility. I put my arms around him and rolled us onto our sides. In a flash I wrapped my silk wrapped gams around his muscular leg, the skirt billowing around us. Then Bertram proceeded to have a jolly good old frottage, making sure that one leg was also rubbing against my bridegroom- _nee_ -manservant’s regal prick. He moaned and grabbed his own stiff-stander, wrapping it in the silk of the skirt. The whole thing might have looked far less graceful than dancing to ‘Night And Day’ but it was a thousand times more conducive to shrieks of ecstasy, paraphrased to "Swanee! How I love you, how I love you! My dear ol' Swaneee!” Jeeves followed suit, although his utterances were a bit more on the _basso profundo_ side: "Conventionality is not morality! Self-righteousness is not religion!"

We lay draped over each other for several years. When at last I could speak, I asked, “Jeeves, have we ruined the dress?”

“No, sir,” he answered in a drowsy voice. “I made certain the material was washable.”

“Thank goodness,” I muttered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “We two have paddled in the stream, from morning sun till dine; but seas between us broad have roared since days of long ago." - Auld Lang Syne, James Watson, 1778
> 
> "Swanee" music by George Gershwin, lyrics by Irving Caesar, written for the revue "Demi-Tasse" in 1919, later made famous by singer Al Jolson, who performed it in blackface.
> 
> "Conventionality is not morality. Self-righteousness is not religion." —Charlotte Brontë, _Jane Eyre_ , preface to the second edition (1847)


	38. Coda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which all's well that end's well.
> 
> Please leave me a comment. I'm feeling rather blue that it's finished.

The next day we were both exhausted. Once again this Wooster felt a surge of pride that he could tire out the superior being that was my man. We started our day with a lovely spot of rubbage. I was coming to love his todger as I loved my own. He had purchased a much bigger bed, so as to minimize his pushing this Wooster out of it. Now all pushing had not only kept me in the bed, it had been quite satisfactory indeed.

Jeeves staggered out on wobbly legs to the kitchen, returning nude except for his apron, and carrying two breakfast trays, which he balanced as deftly as a waiter in a crowded Times Square restaurant. After settling my tray, he removed his apron, slid back into the bed and took up the other one. As always, crisp bacon, perfect eggs (since that first morning he never served me scrambled eggs again) and toast shoulders—or is it soldiers? I nibbled on his shoulder, preferring its taste.

Even though we had turned the solo _chambre à coucher_ into a duo _chambre à coucher_ , the man still arose at 5:30 as he always had, leaving Bertram to face the day at a more rational hour. Jeeves had a rigid attitude toward duty and service. It was his feeling that if we abandoned our respective roles life would turn into a howling void of chaos. Not wishing to have my bridegroom thrown into a howling void, I reluctantly agreed. Well, if truth be told, I wasn’t that reluctant. I had no wish to take up dusting or sautéing cutlets.

To further spare the young master from the ordeal of greeting the rising dawn, Jeeves used his own bathroom to shower, and dressed in his old bedroom. That had the added benefit of appearing that he still slept there, instead of curled up with the young master.

Jeeves looked through the newspaper. “The Royal Family’ has opened sir. It looks as though it will be a great success. Mr. Laurence Olivier does a daring 8 foot leap from a balcony. The Times critic was much impressed.”

“Poor Beryl,” I sighed, leaning back against the pillow. “Gerald will be impossible now.”

“Perhaps not, my own.”

I turned my head to look at him. “Why. What did you do, Jeeves?”

He had a self-satisfied smirk on his handsome mug. “I merely intimated to Mr. Espenson at our wedding reception that Miss Beryl harbored a secret passion for Mr. Coward. And that Mr. Espenson’s constant talk about Mr. Coward was causing her emotional suffering.”

“But—but he only likes coves, not popsies!”

“Precisely, sir. Hence the suffering, knowing that her regard could never be returned."

“I say! You told Gerald she was pining for Noel Coward?”

“Mr. Espenson became quite exercised. Fortunately I had taken the precaution of telling Miss Beryl my plan.  I doubt he shall be speaking about Mr. Coward quite so fulsomely.”

If I had not been naked and therefore bereft of pockets, I would have given Jeeves a tenner. Then I remembered that one does not give their spouse tips, no matter how well deserved. Instead I gave him a long, lingering _baisier_. Which sailed the Channel from England to France, if you take my meaning.

“Jeeves,” I murmured, “you stand alone. And sit alone, and in this case, lie alone. Well, not exactly, I mean to say, I’m lying with you, so you’re not alone, you’re with someone, and that someone is me.”

His dark eyes were filled with amusement. “I have to finish the packing for our Paris sojourn, my own.” Jeeves sipped a cup of perfect tea. “We shall be back shortly after the New Year.”

"The teal dressing gown is a necessity, Jeeves. Teal has become my favorite color, in fact."

"I am pleased to hear that."

"I shall buy a tie in shades of teal, so that I might wear it and think of you."

He winced. "It is not a becoming color, sir."

"What care I? When we're visiting the aunts, and you're stuck serving at table, I shall stroke it and think of you." I gave him an evil-qualitied grin. "It will be quite amusing, watching you watching me run my fingers along the fabric, what?"

"Very good, sir," he replied in tones that let me know that the tie would die a horrible death. "However I regret to say the dress and its accoutrements must remain here."

“It’s going to be rummy, going back to normal life,” I said with a sigh. “The Ripe Cherry, the Nodes company, all delightful people. They accept us. You don’t have to play the part of my loyal manservant.” I ate a moody forkful of eggs.

“I am your loyal manservant.”

“You know what I mean, Jeeves.”

“Indeed, it is a pleasure to feel accepted,” Jeeves agreed. “I have been giving the matter some thought, sir. And I believe I may have arrived at a solicitous solution.”

“Don’t tell me. You want to move to Argentina, where it’s legal to be homosexual. Dashed sorry, Jeeves, but I don’t speak Spanish.”

“Argentinians speak Spanish but there are also 40 other languages, many of them dying out. The commonest dialect is Rioplatense, whose speakers are located primarily in the basin of the Rio de la Plata—“

“Enough of the Argentinians and their dialects, Jeeves.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Save it for the long winter nights. No, the long winter nights are not for such subject matter, since we shall be occupied with non-verbal communication.”

“Indeed, sir.”

“Call me Bertram, Jeeves. As we are lying here naked in bed after a jolly satisfying bit of the old todger friction, you could start addressing me in a less formal fashion, don’t you think?”

“No, sir.”

I sighed in defeat. “Once we return from our honeymoon, we are staying put in the metrop. And I do mean put. As put as put ever was.”

He shifted on the pillows. “What I had in mind does not involve leaving our home. Do you know the term ‘sleeping partner’?”

“I’m your sleeping partner, Jeeves, don’t know why you’re asking something as obvious as that.”

“It is a term commonly used in investment opportunities. The sleeping partner is an investor who invests in productions without formal credit. The investor expects a return on his investment. The amount of involvement is determined by the sleeping partner.”

“All jolly interesting, Jeeves, but why this talk of investing and involving before I’ve finished my tea? In fact, why this talk of investing and involving at all?”

“Sir, if you were to become a sleeping partner, you could continue to participate in the theater as a businessman.”

“Businessman?” I hooted. “Jeeves, are you mad? I know nothing of business, nor do I care to! Leave that rannygazoo to my solicitor.”

“You would not have to worry about your personal involvement. Your affairs would be handled by your business manager and personal secretary.”

“Jeeves, you are talking through your hat. My little flutters with shows have almost never been a success.”

Jeeves dabbed his mouth with his napkin, a small, smug smile on his map. “The theater is always a gamble, sir.” His right eyebrow moved up a fraction. "As you do not need the money--"

"We do not need the money, old thing."

"As your funds are more than ample for your needs, you would be able to invest in the shows you like that are not necessarily guaranteed successful. However, a proper business manager would consider the choices, weigh the risks, and further, prevent you from lending money to individuals who would ‘touch’ you, as you put it," He raised his eyebrows a tenth of an inch to make his point. "A personal secretary would also act in your best interests.”

“You’ve done some pretty tense thinking about this, haven’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, it’s absolute drivel. A business manager and personal secretary? Who would be enough of a chump to throw in their financial lot with this Wooster?”

“Me, sir.”

I dropped my fork. “You, Jeeves? Why?”

He took my hand in his. “Mr. Prosser has an excellent business manager, James Smithers, who would make no decisions without my written approval. I have spoken to Mr. Smithers and your solicitor. As your personal secretary as well as your valet, I would be able to see to your interests both in and outside the personal sphere. As an investor, no one would question your involvement in the entertainment business. Mr. Noel Coward and Mr. Ivor Novello enjoy successful careers even though they are known inverts. And to ensure the lack of attention, certain young ladies of the Sapphic persuasion would be pleased to pose as your female companions when Miss Beryl can no longer.”

If I hadn’t had a breakfast tray in my lap I would have fallen out of the giant bed in amaze. “Jeeves! That’s—that’s brilliant! How long have you been cooking up this scheme?”

He smiled like the cat that had caught the, er, feathered thing. “Since returning to you, my own. It was of great importance to me that we expand our relationship beyond master and man while raising the least suspicion possible.”

I gazed at my man with dumbfounded adoration. “Jeeves, speaking of our relationship, what say you dispose of the breakfast things and we have another round of the old tummy sticks? Lower Wooster wishes to express his _je vous remercie beaucoup_ , if that’s the phrase I want.”

Jeeves looked about to correct me, but instead he slipped his hand around the back of my head. “Indeed, sir,” he said, and kissed me. “I shall clear the breakfast things.”

“Then return this bed pronto. I want to show you how very grateful I am.”

“Very good, sir.”

He winked at me, the rogue!

 

 

It was some hours later that I sat at the good old piano tinkling the good old ivories, a good old whiskey and soda nearby. I was dressed in a spiffing suit with a bright purple tie that Jeeves had graciously allowed me to wear. He was in his uniform, tidying the room. All was copacetic in the Wooster/Jeeves household.  “When did you say the night ferry was leaving?”

“Tomorrow afternoon, sir.” He came and stood behind me, his large hands resting on my shoulders.

"Then why is it called a night ferry? Dashed peculiar, if you ask me, and mighty confusing to the ordinary traveler. Imagine standing on the dock, staring out at the Channel and wondering where the bally boat is."

"Because it docks in France overnight, sir."

"Still. Call it the leave-in-the-afternoon-night ferry. It’s awful that we have to be separated for the voyage,” I whined.

“It is only overnight, sir.”

“Dash it.” To raise my spirits, I decided to play a favorite. “How about a spot of the old Cole Porter?” I said, and started playing “Night and Day”.

Jeeves squeezed my shoulder. “Not _that_ song, my own. No Cole Porter tonight.”

“You think that’s the only quiver in my arrow, Jeeves?”

“The expression is ‘arrow in my quiver’.”

“Quite so. Get ready to quiver. In honor of your successful scuppering of Gerald’s Noel Coward obsession, I shall play a Noel Coward song!” From a pile of sheet music I pulled out the goods. It was a rollicking ditty called “We All Wear A Green Carnation.”

 _Blasé boys are we_  
_Exquisitely free_  
_From the dreary and quite absurd_  
_Moral views of the common herd_  
_We like porphyry bowls—_

“Jeeves, what does porphyry bowls mean?”

He kissed the top of my head. “Bowls made from an ancient stone, purplish-red with small crystals of feldspar. It was originally quarried in Egypt. The aesthetic movement inspired this—“

“Not now, Jeeves, I’m on the wings of song.”

 _We like porphyry bowls—_  
_Chandeliers and stoles_  
_We're most spirited, carefully filleted souls_

 _Pretty boys, witty boys, you may sneer_  
_At our disintegration!_  
_Swooning with affectation_  
_Our figures sleek and willowy_  
_Our lips incarnadine—_

“What does incarnadine mean, Jeeves?”

“Crimson, sir. They are singing of lip rouge.”

I grinned. “Well, we like _that_ , don’t we! Do not worry yourself, beloved, your secret is safe with me!”

  
_Our lips incarnadine—_  
_Faded boys, jaded boys, come what may_  
_Art is our inspiration_  
_And as we are the reason for the_  
_nineties being gay!_  
_We all wear a green carnation!_

I finished with a flourish. “We shall wear green carnations in Paris, Jeeves!”

He crossed the room, returned and handed me a large manila envelope. “I quite forgot. This came for you, sir.”

I examined it. “It’s for both of us, Jeeves.” I tore it open. “It’s sheet music.” I examined the card, and laughed. “It’s from Beryl! ‘Dear Boys, This song seemed appropriate. Congratulations and long may you wave. Love, Beryl.’ Isn’t that sweet! Jeeves, she’s been the angel on our shoulders. An angel with bally marvelous legs.”

“Indeed. A most thoughtful young woman. I am continually surprised.”

“And to think you perceived her as a common gold-digger. Never underestimate people, Jeeves. Join me at the piano, lover of mine.”

“Yes, my own.” Jeeves sat next to me on the bench.

“I say, this is a strange song to give newlyweds,” I said as I read the lyrics. “It’s not a love song, is it?” I spread the music on the stand.

Jeeves smiled as he glanced over it. “It is a most unusual love song.” He put his large hand on my thigh.

It was called “Who Cares What You Have Been”, with a picture of torch singer Helen Morgan on the front, along with “A Ballad Fox Trot”. I played the opening. It was far less sprightly than “Green Carnation”. Nevertheless, I pushed on.

 _At last I’ve found contentment_  
_There’s no resentment for days of yore_  
_I thank the stars I found you_  
_Where I’m around you I want no more_  
_I’ll never ask who you care for_  
_What has the future in store, dear~_

Jeeves leaned forward and took up the tune. His creamy dark baritone made me boneless, as did his hand stroking my thigh. But I stayed strong and continued to tinkle the ivories. He sang the chorus:

 _Who cares what you have been_  
_It’s what you will be_  
_Right now you must begin_  
_Just thinking of me_  
_Some day somebody will say_  
_They knew me too, in a way_  
_Then I’ll expect you to say_  
_The words I long for~_

I paused, baffled. “I’m baffled. What is Beryl implying?”

“That we both have what romantic literature would refer to as ‘a past’, sir.”

I was not sure whether I should be amused or insulted or both or neither. Dashed confusing. "The little devil! But the past is...the past is...poltroon?”

“What's past is prologue. It is from William Shakespeare’s play, ‘The Tempest’, in which Antonio—“

“That’s the baby! What’s past is prologue. You and I are ankling toward the future. It’s my turn.” Jeeves nodded and gave my thigh a squeeze. Lower Wooster was becoming interested in the proceedings, Ignoring it, I sang.

 _Who cares if they’re in doubt_  
_When we are sincere_  
_For soon they’ll all find out_  
_How I love you, my dear~_

“Jeeves, cease to stroke my thigh! You are interfering with young Wooster's concentration.”

“Was I, sir? I was not aware of it.” He gave me a faux innocent look. “The music quite carried me away.”

“Humph, Jeeves, and humph again—I say, that tickles!”

“I am sorry, sir.”

“No you’re not! If you could refrain from brushing your fingers there...oh, my!”

“It is your turn, sir.”

“Stop that! Jeeves! Do not attempt to distract me when I am singing! I...uh...um...will not be...er...dissuaded!’

Determined, I faced forward, ignoring the increasing discomfort of my trousers.

 _I’m not an angel myself_  
_Let’s place the past on the shelf_  
_Who cares what you have been_  
_It’s what you are now!_

“Oh, very WELL!” I exclaimed, slamming the fall board closed. Jeeves gathered me in his strong arms and we pashed enthusiastically, nearly falling off the bench.

“Jeeves, my lovely, I would prefer to do this on a less—er—treacherous surface, if you don’t mind.”

“Very good, my own.” Standing, he scooped me up in his arms and started toward our bedroom.

“I really must send Beryl a gift,” I murmured into his neck. “If it wasn’t for that most serendipitous little morsel, if serendipitous is the word I want , you would still be my valet, I would still be your master, and we would never—I don’t like to think. You’d make my tea and pour my drinks, I’d go to the Drones and attend shows and wonder what I was missing. Thanks to her, I know that what I was missing was you.”

“Indeed, sir.” He nuzzled my hair and pushed the door open with his broad shoulder.

Before he tipped me onto the bed, I managed to say “Won't you please call me Bertram, husband of mine?”

"No, sir."

Then Jeeves joined me, and we didn’t say anything for the rest of the day and into the night.

 

~ FIN ~

 

"We All Wear A Green Carnation"

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! It's done! Thanks to all of you for your comments and cheerleading! A special thanks to Wotwotleigh for encouragement, suggestions and letting me vent!
> 
>  
> 
> Theatre Royal" was the British name for "The Royal Family of Broadway", written by George S. Kaufman and Edna Ferber, a Broadway hit. Starring Laurence Olivier as a character based on John Barrymore and directed by Noel Coward, it was a great success when it opened in the West End. However, I've shortened it to "The Royal Family" because I like it. So there.
> 
> "Bittersweet" was an operetta with music and lyrics by Noel Coward. The song "Green Carnation" is from that show. It ran from 1929 to 1931 in the West End, and was later made into a film starring Jeanette MacDonald and Nelson Eddy.
> 
> The Night Ferry/The boat train was an international sleeper train that ran from London to Gare du Nord, Paris in 11 hours overnight. Starting in 1936, First Class train cars were taken by ferry across the Channel. The service ended in 1980.
> 
> "Who Cares What You Have Been" was written by L. Wolf Hubbard and Martin Freed for the Ziegfeld Midnight Frolic in 1929. Helen Morgan was one of the headliners, along with Maurice Chevalier. Many thanks to Wotwotleigh for suggesting it!


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